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ARIADNE  IN  MANTUA 


ARIADNE  IN  MANTUA 

A  ROMANCE  IN  FIVE  ACTS 

BY 

VERNON  LEE 


Portland,  M'aiue 

Mdccccxi/ 


Tbis  Second  Edition  on 
Van  Gelder  paper  con- 
iists  of  92  f  copies. 


GIFT 


TO 

ETHEL  SMYTH 

THANKING,   AND   BEGGING,    HER   FOR    MUSIC 


301 


PREFACE 


ARIADNE  in  Mantua,  A   Romance  in 
Five  Acts,  by  Wernon  Lee.    Oxford : 
B.  H.  Blackwell    §o  and  5/   Broad 
Street.    London  :  Simpkin,  Marsballt  Ham- 
ilton, Kent  &•  Company.     A.D.  MCMIII, 
Octavo.     Pp.  X  :  11-66. 

Like  almost  everything  else  written  by 
Vernon  Lee  there  is  to  be  found  that 
insistent  little  touch  which  is  her  sign- 
manual  when  dealing  with  Italy  or  its 
makers  of  forgotten  melodies.  In  other 
words,  the  music  of  her  rhythmic  prose 
is  summed  up  in  one  poignant  vocable  — 
Forlorn. 

As  for  her  vanished  world  of  dear  dead 
women  and  their  lovers  who  are  dust,  we 
may  indeed  for  a  brief  hour  enter  that 
enchanted  atmosphere.  Then  a  vapour 
arises  as  out  of  long  lost  lagoons,  and, 
be  it  Venice  or  Mantua,  we  come  to  feel 
"  how  deep  an  abyss  separates  us  —  and 
how  many  faint  and  nameless  ghosts 
crowd  round  the  few  enduring  things  be- 
queathed to  us  by  the  past." 


PREFACE 

"  Alles  Vcrgdngliche  ist  nur  ein  Gleicbniss  ** 

IT  is  in  order  to  give  others  the  pleasure  of 
reading  or  re-reading  a  small  master- 
piecey  that  I  mention  the  likelihood  of  the 
catastrophe  of  my  Ariadne  having  been  sug- 
gested hy  the  late  Mr.  Shorthouse's  Little 
Schoolmaster  Mark ;  but  I  must  ask  forgive- 
ness of  my  dear  old  friend,  Madame  Emile 
Duclaux  (Mary  Robinson), /or  unwarranted 
use  of  one  of  the  songs  of  her  Italian  Garden. 

Readers  of  my  own  little  volume  Genius 
Loci  may  meanwhile  recognise  that  I  have  been 
guilty  of  plagiarism  towards  myself  also.  ^ 

For  a  couple  of  years  after  writing  those 
pages,  the  image  of  the  Palace  of  Mantua  and 
the  lakes  it  steeps  in,  haunted  my  fancy  with 
that  peculiar  insistency  ^  as  of  the  half -lapsed 
recollection  of  a  name  or  date,  which  tells  us 
that  we  know  (if  we  could  only  remember!) 
what  happened  in  a  place.  /  let  the  matter 
rest.    But,  looking  into  my  mind  one  day,  I 

I  See  Appendix  where  the  article  referred  to  is  given 
entire. 


found  that  a  certain  song  of  the  early  seven- 
teenth century — (not  Monteverdi s  Lamento 
d'Arianna  hut  an  air^  Amarilli,  hy  Caccini, 
printed  alongside  in  Parisotti's  collection")  — 
had  entered  that  Palace  of  Mantua^  and  was, 
in  some  manner  not  easy  to  define,  the  musical 
shape  of  what  must  have  happened  there.  And 
that,  translated  hack  into  human  personages, 
was  the  story  I  have  set  forth  in  the  following 
little  Drama, 

So  much  for  the  origin  of  Ariadne  in 
Mantua,  supposing  any  friend  to  he  curious 
about  it.  JVhat  seems  more  interesting  is  my 
feeling,  which  grew  upon  me  as  I  worked  over 
and  over  the  piece  and  its  French  translatiofh 
that  these  personages  had  an  importance 
greater  than  that  of  their  life  and  adventures^ 
a  meaning,  if  I  may  say  so,  a  little  sub  specie 
aetemitatis.  For,  besides  the  real  figures^ 
there  appeared  to  me  vague  shadows  cast  by 
them,  as  it  were,  on  the  vast  spaces  of  life,  and 
magnified  far  beyond  those  little  puppets  that 
I  twitched.  And  I  seem  to  feel  here  the 
struggle,  eternal,  necessary,  between  mere 
impulse,  unreasoning  and  violent,  but  abso- 
lutely true  to  its  aim  ;  and  all  the  moderating, 
the  weighing  and  restraining  influences  of 
civilisation,  with  their  idealism,  their  vacilla- 
tion, but  their  final  triumph  over  the  mere 
forces  of  nature.     These  well-born  people  of 


Mantua^  privileged  beings  wanting  little 
because  they  have  muchf  and  able  therefore  to 
spend  themselves  in  quite  harmonious  effort, 
must  necessarily  get  the  better  of  the  poor 
gutter-born  creature  without  whom,  after  all, 
one  of  them  would  have  been  dead  and  the 
others  would  have  had  no  opening  in  life. 
Poor  Diego  acts  magnanimously,  being  cor- 
nered; but  he  (or  she)  has  not  the  delicacy, 
the  dignity  to  melt  into  thin  air  with  a  mere 
lyric  Metastasian  **  Piangendo  partP  and 
leave  them  to  their  untroubled  conscience.  He 
must  needs  assert  himself,  violently  wrench  at 
their  heart-strings,  give  them  a  final  stab, 
hand  them  over  to  endless  remorse;  briefly, 
commit  that  public  and  theatrical  deed  of 
suicide,  splashing  the  murderous  waters  into 
the  eyes  of  well-behaved  wedding  guests. 

Certainly  neither  the  Duke,  nor  the  Duchess 
Dowager,  nor  Hippolyta  would  have  done 
this.  But,  on  the  other  handy  they  could 
calmly,  coldly,  kindly  accept  the  self-sacrifice 
culminating  in  that  suicide  :  well-bred  people, 
faithful  to  their  standards  and  forcing  others, 
however  unwilling,  into  their  own  conformity. 
Of  course  without  them  the  world  would  be  a 
den  of  thieves,  a  wilderness  of  wolves;  for 
thev  are, —  if  I  may  call  them  by  their  less 
personal  names, —  Tradition,  Discipline,  Civil- 
isation. 


PREFACE 

On  the  other  handy  hut  for  such  as  Diego 
the  world  would  come  to  an  end  within  twenty 
years :  mere  sense  of  duty  and  fitness  not 
being  sufficient  for  the  killing  and  cooking  of 
victuals,  let  alone  the  begetting  and  suckling  of 
children.  The  descendants  of  Ferdinand  and 
Hippolyta,  unless  they  intermarried  with  some 
bastard  of  Diego's  family ,  would  dwindle, 
die  out ;  who  knows,  perhaps  supplement  the 
impulses  they  lacked  by  silly  newfangled  evil. 

These  are  the  contending  forces  of  history 
and  life  :  Impulse  and  Discipline,  creating  and 
keeping;  love  such  as  Diego's,  blind,  selfish, 
magnanimous ;  and  detachment,  noble,  a  little 
bloodless  and  cruel,  like  that  of  the  Duke  of 
Mantua. 

And  it  seems  to  me  that  the  conflicts  which  I 
set  forth  on  my  improbable  little  stage,  are  but 
the  trifling  realities  shadowing  those  great 
abstractions  which  we  seek  all  through  the 
history  of  man,  and  everywhere  in  man^s  own 
heart. 

VERNON   LEE. 

Maiano,  near  Florence, 
June,  1903. 


ARIADNE  IN  MANTUA 


Viola I'll  serve  this  Duke: 

for  I  can  sing 

And  speak  to  bim  in  many  sorts  of  music. 

TWELFTH    NIGHT,  I,  2. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONAE 

Ferdinand,  Duke  of  Mantua. 
The  Cardinal,  his  Uncle. 
The  Duchess  Dowager. 
HiPPOLYTA,  Princess  of  Mirandola. 
Magdalen,  known  as  Diego. 
The  Marchioness  of  Guastalla. 
The  Bishop  of  Cremona. 
The  Doge's  Wife. 
The  Venetian  Ambassador. 
The  Duke  of  Ferrara's  Poet. 
The  Viceroy  of  Naples'  Jester. 
A  Tenor  as  Bacchus. 
The  Cardinal's  Chaplain. 
The  Duchess's  Gentlewoman. 
The  Princess's  Tutor. 
Singers  as  Maenads  and  Satyrs ;  Courtiers, 
Pages,  Wedding  Guests  and  Musicians. 


The  action  takes  place  in  the  Palace  of  Mantua 
through  a  period  of  a  year,  during  the  reign  of  Pros- 
pero  I,  of  Milan,  and  shortly  before  the  Venetian 
expedition  to  Cyprus  under  Othello. 


ARIADNE  IN  MANTUA 

ACT  I 

THE  Cardinal's  Stucijf  in  the  Palace  at 
Mantua.  The  Cardinal  is  seated 
at  a  table  covered  with  Persian  embroiderjfy 
rose-colour  picked  out  with  blue,  on  which  lies 
open  a  volume  of  MachiavelW s  works,  and  in 
it  a  manuscript  of  Catullus  ;  alongside  thereof 
are  a  bell  and  a  magnifying- glass.  Under  his 
feet  a  red  cushion  with  long  tassels,  and  an 
oriental  carpet  of  pale  lavender  and  crimson. 
The  Cardinal  is  dressed  in  scarlet,  a  crimson 
fur-lined  cape  upon  his  shoulders.  He  is  old, 
but  beautiful  and  majestic,  his  face  furrowed 
like  the  marble  bust  of  Seneca  among  the  books 
opposite. 

Through  the  open  Renaissance  window^  with 
candelabra  and  birds  carved  on  the  copings, 
one  sees  the  lake,  pale  blue,  faintly  rippled^ 
with  a  rose-coloured  brick  bridge  and  bridge- 
tower  at  its  narrowest  point.  Diego  [in 
reality  Magdalen)  has  just  been  admitted  into 
the  Cardinal's  presence,  and  after  kissing  his 
ring,  has  remained  standing,  awaiting  his 
pleasure. 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

Diego  is  fantastically  habited  as  a  youth  in 
russet  and  violet  tunic  reaching  below  the  knees 
in  Moorish  fashion y  as  we  see  it  in  the  frescoes 
of  Pinturicchio  ;  with  silver  buttons  down  the 
seamSf  and  plaited  linen  at  the  throat  and  in 
the  unbuttoned  purfles  of  the  sleeves.  His  hair, 
dark  but  red  where  it  catches  the  lights  is  cut 
over  the  forehead  and  touches  his  shoulders. 
He  is  not  very  tall  in  his  boy's  clothes^  and  very 
sparely  built.  He  is  pale^  almost  sallow  ;  the 
face,  dogged,  sullen,  rather  expressive  than 
beautiful,  save  for  the  perfection  of  the  brows 
and  of  the  flower-like  singer's  mouth.  He 
stands  ceremoniously  before  the  Cardinal, 
one  band  on  his  dagger,  nervously,  while  the 
other  holds  a  large  travelling  hat,  looped  up, 
with  a  long  drooping  plume. 

The  Cardinal  raises  his  eyes,  slightly  bows 
bis  head,  closes  the  manuscript  and  the  volume, 
and  puts  both  aside  deliberately.  He  is,  mean- 
while, examining  the  appearance  of  Diego. 

Cardinal 

We  are  glad  to  see  you  at  Mantua,  Signer 
Diego.  And  from  what  our  worthy  Vene- 
tian friend  informs  us  in  the  letter  which  he 
gave  you  for  our  hands,  we  shall  without  a 
doubt  be  wholly  satisfied  with  your  singing, 
which  is  said  to  be  both  sweet  and  learned. 
Prythee,   Brother   Matthias   {turning   to  his 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

Chaplain),  bid  them  bring  hither  my  virginal, 
—  that  with  the  Judgment  of  Paris  painted 
on  the  lid  by  Giulio  Romano;  its  tone  is 
admirably  suited  to  the  human  voice.  And, 
Brother  Matthias,  hasten  to  the  Duke's  own 
theorb  player,  and  bid  him  come  straight - 
ways.  Nay,  go  thyself,  good  Brother  Mat- 
thias, and  seek  till  thou  hast  found  him. 
We  are  impatient  to  judge  of  this  good 
youth's  skill. 

The  Chaplain  hows  and  retires.  Diego 
(in  reality  Magdalen)  remains  alone  in 
the  Cardinal's  presence.  The  Cardinal 
remains  for  a  second  turning  over  a  letter,  and 
then  reads  through  the  magnifying- glass  out 
loud. 

Cardinal 

Ah,  here  is  the  sentence :  "  Diego,  a 
Spaniard  of  Moorish  descent,  and  a  most 
expert  singer  and  player  on  the  virginal, 
whom  I  commend  to  your  Eminence's  favour 
as  entirely  fitted  for  such  services  as  your 

revered  letter  makes  mention  of "  Good, 

good. 

The  Cardinal  folds  the  letter  and  beckons 
Diego  to  approach,  then  speaks  in  a  manner 
suddenly  altered  to  abruptness,  hut  with  no 
enquiry  in  his  tone. 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

Signer  Diego,  you  are  a  woman 

Diego  starts,  flushes  and  exclaims  huskily, 

"  My  Lord ."    But  the  Cardinal  makes 

a  deprecatory  movement  and  continues  his  sen- 
tence. 

and,  as  my  honoured  Venetian  correspondent 
assures  me,  a  courtesan  of  some  experience 
and  of  more  than  usual  tact.  I  trust  this 
favourable  judgment  may  be  justified.  The 
situation  is  delicate ;  and  the  work  for  which 
you  have  been  selected  is  dangerous  as  well 
as  difficult.  Have  you  been  given  any 
knowledge  of  this  case  ? 

Diego  has  by  this  time  recovered  his  com- 
posure^ and  answers  with  respectful  reserve. 

Diego 

I  asked  no  questions,  your  Eminence.  But 
the  Senator  Gratiano  vouchsafed  to  tell  me 
that  my  work  at  Mantua  would  be  to  soothe 
and  cheer  with  music  your  noble  nephew 
Duke  Ferdinand,  who,  as  is  rumoured,  has 
been  a  prey  to  a  certain  languor  and  moodi- 
ness ever  since  his  return  from  many  years* 
captivity  among  the  Infidels.  Moreover 
(such  were  the  Senator  Gratiano's  words), 
that  if  the  Fates  proved  favourable  to  my 
music,  I  might  gain  access  to  His  Highness's 
confidence,  and  thus  enable  your  Eminence 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

to    understand    and    compass    his    strange 

malady. 

Cardinal 

Even  so.  You  speak  discreetly,  Diego; 
and  your  manner  gives  hope  of  more  good 
sense  than  is  usual  in  your  sex  and  in  your 
trade.  But  this  matter  is  of  more  difficulty 
than  such  as  you  can  realise.  Your  being  a 
woman  will  be  of  use  should  our  scheme 
prove  practicable.  In  the  outset  it  may 
wreck  us  beyond  recovery.  For  all  his 
gloomy  apathy,  my  nephew  is  quick  to  sus- 
picion, and  extremely  subtle.  He  will  delight 
in  flouting  us,  should  the  thought  cross  his 
brain  that  we  are  practising  some  coarse  and 
foolish  stratagem.  And  it  so  happens,  that 
his  strange  moodiness  is  marked  by  abhor- 
rence of  all  womankind.  For  months  he  has 
refused  the  visits  of  his  virtuous  mother. 
And  the  mere  name  of  his  young  cousin  and 
affianced  bride.  Princess  Hippolyta,  has 
thrown  him  into  paroxysms  of  anger.  Yet 
Duke  Ferdinand  possesses  all  his  faculties. 
He  is  aware  of  being  the  last  of  our  house, 
and  must  know  full  well  that,  should  he  die 
without  an  heir,  this  noble  dukedom  will 
become  the  battlefield  of  rapacious  alien 
claimants.  He  denies  none  of  this,  but 
nevertheless  looks  on  marriage  with  unseemly 
horror. 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Diego 

Is  it  so  ? And is  there  any  reason 

His  Highness's  melancholy  should  take  this 
shape  ?  I  crave  your  Eminence's  pardon  if 
there  is  any  indiscretion  in  this  question  ; 
but  I  feel  it  may  be  well  that  I  should  know 
some  more  upon  this  point.  Has  Duke 
Ferdinand  suffered  some  wrong  at  the  hands 
of  women  ?  Or  is  it  the  case  of  some  pas- 
sion, hopeless,  unfitting  to  his  rank,  perhaps  ? 

Cardinal 

Your  imagination,  good  Madam  Magdalen, 
runs  too  easily  along  the  tracks  familiar  to 
your  sex;  and  such  inquisitiveness  smacks 
too  much  of  the  courtesan.  And  beware,  my 
lad,  of  touching  on  such  subjects  with  the 
Duke :  women  and  love,  and  so  forth.  For 
I  fear,  that  while  endeavouring  to  elicit  the 
Duke's  secret,  thy  eyes,  thy  altered  voice, 
might  betray  thy  own. 

Diego 

Betray  me  ?  My  secret  ?  What  do  you 
mean,  my  Lord  ?  I  fail  to  grasp  your  mean- 
ing. 

Cardinal 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  that  the  Duke 
must  not  suspect  your  being  a  woman  ?    For 


Ip 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

if  a  woman  may  gradually  melt  his  torpor, 
and  bring  him  under  the  control  of  reason 
and  duty,  this  can  only  come  about  by  her 
growing  familiar  and  necessary  to  him  with- 
out alarming  his  moody  virtue. 

Diego 

I  crave  your  Eminence's  indulgence  for 
that  one  question,  which  I  repeat  because, 
as  a  musician,  it  may  affect  my  treatment  of 
His  Highness.      Has  the  Duke  ever  loved  ? 

Cardinal 

Too  little  or  too  much, —  which  of  the  two 
it  will  be  for  you  to  find  out.  My  nephew 
was  ever,  since  his  boyhood,  a  pious  and 
joyless  youth ;  and  such  are  apt  to  love  once, 
and,  as  the  poets  say,  to  die  for  love.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  keep  to  your  part  of  singer ;  and 
even  if  you  suspect  that  he  suspects  you,  let 
him  not  see  your  suspicion,  and  still  less  jus- 
tify his  own.  Be  merely  a  singer:  a  sexless 
creature,  having  seen  passion  but  never  felt 
it;  yet  capable,  by  the  miracle  of  art,  of 
rousing  and  soothing  it  in  others.  Go  warily, 
and  mark  my  words :  there  is,  I  notice,  even 
in  your  speaking  voice,  a  certain  quality  such 
as  folk  say  melts  hearts ;  a  trifle  hoarseness, 
a  something  of  a  break,  which  mars  it  as 


ARIADNE    IN    MANTUA 

mere  sound,  but  gives  it  more  power  than 
that  of  sound.  Employ  that  quality  when  the 
fit  moment  comes ;  but  most  times  restrain  it. 
You  have  understood  ? 

Diego 
I  think  I  have,  my  Lord. 

Cardinal 

Then  only  one  word  more.  Women,  and 
women  such  as  you,  are  often  ill  advised 
and  foolishly  ambitious.  Let  not  success, 
should  you  have  any  in  this  enterprise, 
endanger  it  and  you.  Your  safety  lies  in 
being  my  tool.  My  spies  are  everywhere ; 
but  I  require  none ;  I  seem  to  know  the  folly 
which  poor  mortals  think  and  feel.  And 
see  1  this  palace  is  surrounded  on  three  sides 
by  lakes;  a  rare  and  beautiful  circumstance, 
which  has  done  good  service  on  occasion. 
Even  close  to  this  pavilion  these  blue  waters 
are  less  shallow  than  they  seem. 

Diego 

I  had  noted  it.  Such  an  enterprise  as 
mine  requires  courage,  my  Lord;  and  your 
palace,  built  into  the  lake,  as  life, —  saving 
all  thought  of  heresy, —  is  built  out  into 
death,  your  palace  may  give  courage  as  well 
as  prudence. 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Cardinal 

Your  words,  Diego,  are  irrelevant,  but  do 
not  displease  me. 

Diego  bows.  The  Chaplain  enters  with 
Pages  carrying  a  harpsicbordy  wbicb  tbey  place 
upon  tbe  table  ;  also  two  Musicians  witb  tbeorb 
and  viol. 

Brother  Matthias,  thou  hast  been  a  skilful 
organist,  and  hast  often  delighted  me  with 
thy  fugues  and  canons. —  Sit  to  the  instru- 
ment, and  play  a  prelude,  while  this  good 
youth  collects  his  memory  and  his  voice 
preparatory  to  displaying  his  skill. 

Tbe  Chaplain,  not  unlike  tbe  monk  in 
Titian*  s  "  Concert^*  begins  to  play,  Diego 
standing  by  bim  at  tbe  barpsicbord.  IVbile 
tbe  cunningly  interlaced  tbemes,  witb  wide, 
unclosed  cadences,  tinkle  metallically  from 
tbe  instrument,  tbe  Cardinal  watcbes,  very 
deliberately,  tbe  face  of  Diego,  seeking  to 
penetrate  tbrougb  its  sullen  sedateness.  But 
Diego  remains  witb  bis  eyes  fixed  on  tbe  view 
framed  by  tbe  window :  tbe  pale  blue  lake,  of 
tbe  colour  of  periwinkle,  under  a  sky  barely 
bluer  tban  itself,  and  tbe  lines  on  tbe  bori^on 
— piled  up  clouds  or  perbaps  Alps.  Only,  as 
tbe  Chaplain  is  about  to  finisb  bis  prelude,  tbe 
face  of  Diego  undergoes  a  cbange :  a  sudden 


13 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

fervour  and  tenderness  transfigure  the  features; 
while  the  eyes^from  very  dark  turn  to  the  col- 
our of  carnelian.  This  illumination  dies  out 
as  quickly  as  it  came,  and  Diego  becomes  very 
self-contained  and  very  listless  as  before, 

Diego 

Will  it  please  your  Eminence  that  I  should 
sing  the  Lament  of  Ariadne  on  Naxos  ? 


H 


ACT  II 

A  FEW  months  later.  Another  part  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  of  Mantua.  The  Duch- 
ess's closet :  a  small  irregular  chamber  ;  the 
vaulted  ceiling  painted  with  Giottesque  patterns 
in  blue  and  russet y  much  hlackenedt  and  among 
which  there  is  visible  only  a  coronation  of  the 
Virgin,  white  and  vision-like.  Shelves  with  a 
few  books  and  phials  and  jars  of  medicine  ;  a 
small  movable  organ  in  a  corner ;  and,  in 
front  of  the  ogival  window,  a  prajying -chair 
and  large  crucifix.  The  crucifix  is  black 
against  the  landscape,  against  the  grey  and 
misty  waters  of  the  lake  ;  and  framed  by  the 
nearly  leafless  branches  of  a  willow  growing 
below. 

The  Duchess  Dowager  is  tall  and 
straight,  but  almost  bodiless  in  her  black  nun- 
like dress.  Her  face  is  so  white,  its  lips  and 
eyebrows  so  colourless,  and  eyes  so  pale  a  blue, 
that  one  might  at  first  think  it  insignificant, 
and  only  gradually  notice  the  strength  and 
beauty  of  the  features.  The  Duchess  has 
laid  aside  her  sewing  on  the  entrance  of 
Diego,  in  reality  Magdalen  ;  and,  forgetful 
of  all  state,  been  on  the  point  of  rising  to  meet 
him.  But  Diego  has  ceremoniously  let  him- 
self down  on  one  knee,  expecting  to  kiss  her 
hand. 


15 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Duchess 

Nay,  Signer  Diego,  do  not  kneel.  Such 
forms  have  long  since  left  my  life,  nor  are 
they,  as  it  seems  to  me,  very  fitting  between 
God's  creatures.  Let  me  grasp  your  hand, 
and  look  into  the  face  of  him  whom  Heaven 
has  chosen  to  work  a  miracle.  You  have 
cured  my  son  I 

Diego 

It  is  indeed  a  miracle  of  Heaven,  most 
gracious  Madam ;  and  one  in  which,  alas, 
my  poor  self  has  been  as  nothing.  For 
sounds,  subtly  linked,  take  wondrous  pow- 
ers from  the  soul  of  him  who  frames  their 
patterns ;  and  we,  who  sing,  are  merely  as 
the  string  or  keys  he  presses,  or  as  the  reed 
through  which  he  blows.  The  virtue  is  not 
ours,  though  coming  out  of  us. 

Diego  has  made  this  speech  as  if  learned  by 
rote,  with  listless  courtesy.  The  Duchess  has 
at  first  been  froien  by  his  manner ,  but  at  the 
end  she  answers  very  simply. 

Duchess 

You  speak  too  learnedly,  good  Signor 
Diego,  and  your  words  pass  my  poor  under- 
standing. The  virtue  in  any  of  us  is  but 
God's  finger-touch  or  breath ;  but  those  He 


i6 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

chooses  as  His  instruments  are,  methinks, 
angels  or  saints  ;  and  whatsoever  you  be,  I 
look  upon  you  with  loving  awe.  You  smile  ? 
You  are  a  courtier,  while  I,  although  I  have 
not  left  this  palace  for  twenty  years,  have  long 
forgotten  the  words  and  ways  of  courts.  I 
am  but  a  simpleton  :  a  foolish  old  woman 
who  has  unlearned  all  ceremony  through 
many  years  of  many  sorts  of  sorrow;  and 
now,  dear  youth,  unlearned  it  more  than 
ever  from  sheer  joy  at  what  it  has  pleased 
God  to  do  through  you.  For,  thanks  to  you, 
I  have  seen  my  son  again,  my  dear,  wise, 
tender  son  again.  I  would  fain  thank  you. 
If  I  had  worldly  goods  which  you  have  not 
in  plenty,  or  honours  to  give,  they  should  be 
yours.  You  shall  have  my  prayers.  For 
even  you,  so  favoured  of  Heaven,  will  some 
day  want  them. 

Diego 

Give  them  me  now,  most  gracious  Madam. 
I  have  no  faith  in  prayers ;  but  I  need  them. 

Duchess 

Great  joy  has  made  me  heartless  as  well 
as  foolish.  I  have  hurt  you,  somehow. 
Forgive  me,  Signor  Diego. 


17 


ARIADNE  IN   MANTUA 

Diego 

As  you  said,  I  am  a  courtier,  Madam,  and 
I  know  it  is  enough  if  we  can  serve  our 
princes.  We  have  no  business  with  troubles 
of  our  own;  but  having  them,  we  keep  them 
to  ourselves.  His  Highness  awaits  me  at 
this  hour  for  the  usual  song  which  happily 
unclouds  his  spirit.  Has  your  Grace  any 
message  for  him  ? 

Duchess 

Stay.  My  son  will  wait  a  little  while.  I 
require  you,  Diego,  for  I  have  hurt  you. 
Your  words  are  terrible,  but  just.  We 
princes  are  brought  up  —  but  many  of  us, 
alas,  are  princes  in  this  matter  !  —  to  think 
that  when  we  say  "  I  thank  you  "  we  have 
done  our  duty;  though  our  very  satisfaction, 
our  joy,  may  merely  bring  out  by  comparison 
the  emptiness  of  heart,  the  secret  soreness, 
of  those  we  thank.  We  are  not  allowed  to 
see  the  burdens  of  others,  and  merely  load 
them  with  our  own. 

Diego 

Is  this  not  wisdom  ?  Princes  should  not 
see  those  burdens  which  they  cannot,  which 
they  must  not,  try  to  carry.  And  after  all, 
princes  or  slaves,  can  others  ever  help  us, 
save  with  their  purse,  with  advice,  with  a 


i8 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

concrete  favour,  or,  say,  with  a  song?  Our 
troubles  smart  because  they  are  our  troubles ; 
our  burdens  weigh  because  on  our  shoulders  ; 
they  are  part  of  us,  and  cannot  be  shifted. 
But  God  doubtless  loves  such  kind  thoughts 
as  you  have,  even  if,  with  your  Grace's 
indulgence,  they  are  useless. 

Duchess 

If  it  were  so,  God  would  be  no  better  than 
an  earthly  prince.  But  believe  me,  Diego, 
if  He  prefer  what  you  call  kindness — bare 
sense  of  brotherhood  in  suffering  —  *t  is  for 
its  usefulness.  We  cannot  carry  each  other's 
burden  for  a  minute ;  true,  and  rightly  so ; 
but  we  can  give  each  other  added  strength 
to  bear  it. 

Diego 

By  what  means,  please  your  Grace  ? 

Duchess 
By  love,  Diego. 

Diego 

Love  !  But  that  was  surely  never  a  source 
of  strength,  craving  your  Grace's  pardon  ? 

Duchess 

The  love  which  I  am  speaking  of  —  and  it 
may  surely  bear  the  name,  since  't  is  the  only 


19 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

sort  of  love  that  cannot  turn  to  hatred. 
Love  for  who  requires  it  because  it  is 
required  —  say  love  of  any  woman  who  has 
been  a  mother  for  any  child  left  motherless. 
Nay,  forgive  my  boldness :  my  gratitude 
gives  me  rights  on  you,  Diego.  You  are 
unhappy;  you  are  still  a  child;  and  I  imag- 
ine that  you  have  no  mother. 

Diego 

I  am  told  I  had  one,  gracious  Madam. 
She  was,  saving  your  Grace's  presence,  only 
a  light  woman,  and  sold  for  a  ducat  to  the 
Infidels.  I  cannot  say  I  ever  missed  her. 
Forgive  me.  Madam.  Although  a  courtier, 
the  stock  I  come  from  is  extremely  base.  I 
have  no  understanding  of  the  words  of  noble 
women  and  saints  like  you.  My  vileness 
thinks  them  hollow ;  and  my  pretty  manners 
are  only,  as  your  Grace  has  unluckily  had 
occasion  to  see,  a  very  thin  and  bad  veneer. 
I  thank  your  Grace,  and  once  more  crave 
permission  to  attend  the  Duke. 

Duchess 

Nay.  That  is  not  true.  Your  soul  is 
nowise  base-bom.  I  owe  you  everything, 
and,  by  some  inadvertence,  I  have  done 
nothing  save  stir  up  pain  in  you.  I  want  — 
the  words  may  seem  presumptuous,  yet  carry 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

a  meaning  which  is  humble  —  I  want  to  be 
your  friend ;  and  to  help  you  to  a  greater, 
better  Friend.     I  will  pray  for  you,  Diego. 

Diego 

No,  no.  You  are  a  pious  and  virtuous 
woman,  and  your  pity  and  prayers  must  keep 
fit  company. 

Duchess 

The  only  fitting  company  for  pity  and 
prayers,  for  love,  dear  lad,  is  the  company  of 
those  who  need  them.     Am  I  over  bold  ? 

The  Duchess  has  risetiy  and  shyly  laid  her 
hand  on  Diego's  shoulder.  Diego  breaks 
loose  and  covers  his  face,  exclaiming  in  a  dry 
and  husky  voice. 

Diego 

Oh  the  cruelty  of  loneliness,  Madam  1 
Save  for  two  years  which  taught  me  by  com- 
parison its  misery,  I  have  lived  in  loneliness 
always  in  this  lonely  world ;  though  never, 
alas,  alone.  Would  it  had  always  continued  1 
But  as  the  wayfarer  from  out  of  the  snow  and 
wind  feels  his  limbs  numb  and  frozen  in  the 
hearth's  warmth,  so,  having  learned  that  one 
might  speak,  be  understood,  be  comforted, 
that  one  might  love  and  be  beloved,  —  the 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

misery  of  loneliness  was  revealed  to  me. 
And  then  to  be  driven  back  into  it  once 
more,  shut  in  to  it  for  ever !  Oh,  Madam, 
when  one  can  no  longer  claim  understanding 
and  comfort ;  no  longer  say  "  I  suffer :  help 
me  I  "  —  because  the  creature  one  would  say 
it  to  is  the  very  same  who  hurts  and  spurns 
onel 

Duchess 

How  can  a  child  like  you  already  know 
such  things?  We  women  may,  indeed.  I 
was  as  young  as  you,  years  ago,  when  I  too 
learned  it.  And  since  I  learned  it,  let  my 
knowledge,  my  poor  child,  help  you  to  bear 
it.  I  know  how  silence  galls  and  wearies. 
If  silence  hurts  you,  speak,  —  not  for  me  to 
answer,  but  understand  and  sorrow  for  you. 
I  am  old  and  simple  and  unlearned ;  but, 
God  willing,  I  shall  understand. 

Diego 

If  anything  could  help  me,  't  is  the  sense 
of  kindness  such  as  yours.  I  thank  you  for 
your  gift ;  but  acceptance  of  it  would  be 
theft ;  for  it  is  not  meant  for  what  I  really 
am.  And  though  a  living  lie  in  many  things 
I  am  still,  oddly  enough,  honest.  Therefore,  I 
pray  you.  Madam,  farewell. 


22 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Duchess 

Do  not  believe  it,  Diego.  Where  it  is 
needed,  our  poor  loving  kindness  can  never 
be  stolen. 

Diego 

Do  not  tempt  me,  Madam  1  Oh  God,  I 
do  not  want  your  pity,  your  loving  kindness  ! 
What  are  such  things  to  me  ?  And  as  to 
understanding  my  sorrows,  no  one  can,  save 
the  very  one  who  is  inflicting  them.  Besides, 
you  and  I  call  different  things  by  the  same 
names.  What  you  call  love^  to  me  means 
nothing :  nonsense  taught  to  children,  priest's 
metaphysics.  What  /  mean,  you  do  not 
know.  {A  pausCi  Diego  walks  up  and  down 
in  agitation.)  But  woe 's  me !  You  have 
awakened  the  power  of  breaking  through 
this  silence,  —  this  silence  which  is  starva- 
tion and  deathly  thirst  and  suffocation.  And 
it  so  happens  that  if  I  speak  to  you  all  will 
be  wrecked.  {A  pause.)  But  there  remains 
nothing  to  wreck  1  Understand  me.  Madam, 
I  care  not  who  you  are.  I  know  that  once  I 
have  spoken,  you  must  become  my  enemy. 
But  I  am  grateful  to  you ;  you  have  shown 
me  the  way  to  speaking ;  and,  no  matter  now 
to  whom,  I  now  must  speak. 


23 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Duchess 

You  shall  speak  to  God,  my  friend,  though 
you  speak  seemingly  to  me, 

Diego 

To  God !  To  God  1  These  are  the  icy 
generalities  we  strike  upon  under  all  pious 
warmth.  No,  gracious  Madam,  I  will  not 
speak  to  God;  for  God  knows  it  already, 
and,  knowing,  looks  on  indifferent.  I  will 
speak  to  j^ou.  Not  because  you  are  kind  and 
pitiful ;  for  you  will  cease  to  be  so.  Not 
because  you  will  understand ;  for  you  never 
will.  I  will  speak  to  you  because,  although 
you  are  a  saint,  you  are  bis  mother,  have 
kept  somewhat  of  his  eyes  and  mien  ;  because 
it  will  hurt  you  if  I  speak,  as  I  would  it 
might  hurt  bim.  I  am  a  woman.  Madam  ;  a 
harlot ;  and  I  was  the  Duke  your  son's  mis- 
tress while  among  the  Infidels. 

y4  long  silence.  Tbe  Duchess  remains 
seated.  Sbe  barely  starts^  exclaiming  "Ah  !  —  " 
and  becomes  suddenly  absorbed  in  tbougbt. 
Diego  stands  looking  listlessly  through  tbe 
window  at  the  lake  and  tbe  willow. 

Diego 

I  await  your  Grace's  orders.  Will  it 
please  you  that  I  call  your  maid -of -honour, 


24 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

or  summon  the  gentleman  outside  ?  If  it  so 
please  you,  there  need  be  no  scandal.  I 
shall  give  myself  up  to  any  one  your  Grace 
prefers. 

The  Duchess />^s  no  attention  to  Diego*s 
last  wordst  and  remains  reflecting. 

Duchess 

Then,  it  is  he  who,  as  you  call  it,  spurns 
you?  How  so?  For  you  are  admitted  to 
his  close  familiarity ;  nay,  you  have  worked 
the  miracle  of  curing  him.  I  do  not  under- 
stand the  situation.  For,  Diego,  —  I  know 
not  by  what  other  name  to  call  you  —  I  feel 
your  sorrow  is  a  deep  one.    You  are  not  the 

woman  who  would  despair  and  call  God 

cruel  for  a  mere  lover's  quarrel.  You  love 
my  son  ;  you  have  cured  him,  —  cured  him, 
do  I  guess  rightly,  through  your  love  ?  But 
if  it  be  so,  what  can  my  son  have  done  to 
break  your  heart  ? 

Diego 

{after  listening  astonished  at  the  Duchess's 

unaltered  tone  of  kindness) 

Your  Grace  will  understand  the  matter  as 
much  as  I  can ;  and  I  cannot.  He  does  not 
recognise  me,  Madam. 

Duchess 
Not  recognise  you  ?    What  do  you  mean  ? 


25 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Diego 
What  the  words  signify :  Not  recognise. 

Duchess 

Then he  does  not  know he  still 

believes  you  to  be a  stranger  ? 

Diego 
So  it  seems,  Madam. 

Duchess 

And  yet  you  have  cured  his  melancholy 

by  your  presence.     And  in  the  past tell 

me  :  had  you  ever  sung  to  him  ? 

Diego  {weeping  silently) 
Daily,  Madam. 

Duchess  {slowly) 

They  say  that  Ferdinand  is,  thanks  to 
you,  once  more  in. full  possession  of  his 
mind.  It  cannot  be.  Something  still  lacks ; 
he  is  not  fully  cured. 

Diego 

Alas,  he  is.  The  Duke  remembers  every- 
thing, save  me. 

Duchess 

There  is  some  mystery  in  this.  I  do  not 
understand  such  matters.     But  I  know  that 


26 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

Ferdinand  could  never  be  base  towards  you 
knowingly.  And  you,  methinks,  would  never 
be  base  towards  him.  Diego,  time  will 
bring  light  into  this  darkness.  Let  us  pray 
God  together  that  He  may  make  our  eyes 
and  souls  able  to  bear  it. 

Diego 

I  cannot  pray  for  light,  most  gracious 
Madam,  because  I  fear  it.  Indeed  I  cannot 
pray  at  all,  there  remains  nought  to  pray  for. 
But,  among  the  vain  and  worldly  songs  I 
have  had  to  get  by  heart,  there  is,  by  chance, 
a  kind  of  little  hymn,  a  childish  little  verse, 
but  a  sincere  one.  And  while  you  pray  for 
me — for  you  promised  to  pray  for  me. 
Madam  —  I  should  like  to  sing  it,  with  your 
Grace's  leave. 

Diego  opens  a  little  movable  organ  in  a 
corner^  and  strikes  a  few  chords,  remaining 
standing  the  while.  The  Duchess  kneels 
down  before  the  crucifix,  turning  her  back 
upon  him.  While  she  is  silently  praying, 
Diego,  still  on  his  feet,  sings  very  low  to  a 
kind  of  lullaby  tune. 

Mother  of  God, 
We  are  thy  weary  children  ; 
Teach  us,  thou  weeping  Mother, 
To  cry  ourselves  to  sleep. 

27 


ACT  III 

THREE  months  later.  Another  part  of  the 
Palace  of  Manttia  :  the  hanging  gardens 
in  the  Duke's  apartments.  It  is  the  first  warm 
night  of  Spring.  The  lemon  trees  have  been 
brought  out  that  day,  and  fill  the  air  with 
fragrance.  Terraces  and  flights  of  steps;  in 
the  background  the  dark  mass  of  the  palace, 
with  its  cupolas  and  fortified  towers  ;  here  and 
there  a  lit  window  picking  out  the  dark  ;  and 
from  above  the  principal  yards,  the  flare  of 
torches  rising  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky. 
In  the  course  of  the  scene,  the  moon  gradually 
emerges  from  behind  a  group  of  poplars  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  lake  into  which  the  palace 
is  built.  During  the  earlier  part  of  the  act, 
darkness.  Great  stillness,  with,  only  occasion- 
ally, the  plash  of  a  fisherman* s  oar,  or  a  very 
distant  thrum  of  mandolines. —  The  Duke 
and  Diego  are  walking  up  and  down  the 
terrace. 

Duke 

Thou  askedst  me  once,  dear  Diego,  the 
meaning  of  that  labyrinth  which  I  have  had 
carved,  a  shapeless  pattern  enough,  but  well 
suited,  methinks,  to  blue  and  gold,  upon  the 
ceiling  of  my  new  music  room.   And  wouldst 


28 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA  ^ 

have  asked,  I  fancy,  as  many  have  done,  the 
hidden  meaning  of  the  device  surrounding 
it.  —  I  left  thee  in  the  dark,  dear  lad,  and 
treated  thy  curiosity  in  a  peevish  manner. 
Thou  hast  long  forgiven  and  perhaps  for- 
gotten, deeming  my  lack  of  courtesy  but 
another  ailment  of  thy  poor  sick  master; 
another  of  those  odd  ungracious  moods  with 
which,  kindest  of  healing  creatures,  thou 
hast  had  such  wise  and  cheerful  patience. 
I  have  often  wished  to  tell  thee;  but  I  could 
not.  'Tis  only  now,  in  some  mysterious 
fashion,  I  seem  myself  once  more,  —  able  to 
do  my  judgment's  bidding,  and  to  dispose, 
in  memory  and  words,  of  my  own  past.  My 
strange  sickness,  which  thou  hast  cured, 
melting  its  mists  away  with  thy  beneficent 
music  even  as  the  sun  penetrates  and  sucks 
away  the  fogs  of  dawn  from  our  lakes  —  my 
sickness,  Diego,  the  sufferings  of  my  flight 
from  Barbary ;  the  horror,  perhaps,  of  that 
shipwreck  which  cast  me  (so  they  say,  for  I 
remember  nothing)  senseless  on  the  Illyrian 
coast these  things,  or  Heaven's  judg- 
ment on  but  a  lukewarm  Crusader,  —  had 
somehow  played  strange  havoc  with  my  will 
and  recollections.  I  could  not  think;  or 
thinking,  not  speak ;  or  recollecting,  feel 
that  he  whom  I  thought  of  in  the  past  was 
this  same  man,  myself. 


29 


ARIADNE    IN    MANTUA 

The  Duke  pauses,  and  leaning  on  the  para- 
pet, watches  the  long  reflections  of  the  big  stars 
in  the  water. 

But  now,  and  thanks  to  thee,  Diego,  I  am 
another ;  I  am  myself. 

Diego's /(3^^,  invisible  in  the  darkness,  has 
undergone  dreadful  convulsions.  His  breast 
heaves,  and  he  stops  for  breath  before  answer- 
ing; but  when  he  does  so,  controls  his  voice 
into  its  usual  rather  artificially  cadenced  tone. 

Diego 

And  now,  dear  Master,  you  can  recollect 

all? 

Duke 

Recollect,  sweet  friend,  and  tell  thee.  For 
it  is  seemly  that  I  should  break  through  this 
churlish  silence  with  thee.  Thou  didst  cure 
the  weltering  distress  of  my  poor  darkened 
mind ;  I  would  have  thee,  now,  know  some- 
what of  the  past  of  thy  grateful  patient. 
The  maze,  Diego,  carved  and  gilded  on  that 
ceiling  is  but  a  symbol  of  my  former  life ; 
and  the  device  which,  being  interpreted, 
means  "  I  seek  straight  ways,"  the  expres- 
sion of  my  wish  and  duty. 

Diego 
You  loathed  the  maze,  my  Lord  .'* 


30 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Duke 

Not  so.  I  loved  it  then.  And  I  still  love 
it  now.  But  I  have  issued  from  it  —  issued 
to  recognise  that  the  maze  was  good. 
Though  it  is  good  I  left  it.  When  I  entered 
it,  I  was  a  raw  youth,  although  in  years  a 
man;  full  of  easy  theory,  and  thinking  all 
practice  simple ;  unconscious  of  passion ; 
ready  to  govern  the  world  with  a  few  learned 
notions;  moreover  never  having  known 
either  happiness  or  grief,  never  loved  and 
wondered  at  a  creature  different  from  myself ; 
acquainted,  not  with  the  straight  roads  which 
I  now  seek,  but  only  with  the  rectangular 
walls  of  schoolrooms.  The  maze,  and  all 
the  maze  implied,  made  me  a  man. 

Diego 

{who  has  listened  with  conflicting  feelings^  and 
now  unable  to  conceal  his  joy) 

A  man,  dear  Master;   and  the   gentlest, 

most  just  of  men.   Then,  that  maze But 

idle  stories,  interpreting  all  spiritual  meaning 
as  prosy  fact,  would  have  it,  that  this  symbol 
was  a  reality.  The  legend  of  your  captivity, 
my  Lord,  has  turned  the  pattern  on  that 
ceiling  into  a  real  labyrinth,  some  cunningly 
built  fortress  or  prison,  where  the  Infidels 
kept  you,  and  whose  clue— —you  found, 


31 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

and  with  the  clue,  freedom,  after  five  weary 
years. 

Duke 

Whose  clue,  dear  Diego,  was  given  into 
my  hands,  —  the  clue  meaning  freedom,  but 
also  eternal  parting  —  by  the  most  faithful, 

intrepid,  magnanimous,  the  most  loving 

and  the  most  beloved  of  women ! 

The  Duke  has  raised  bis  arms  from  the 
parapet i  and  drawn  himself  erect,  folding  them 
on  his  breast  J  and  seeking  for  Diego^s  face  in 
the  darkness.  But  Diego,  unseen  by  the  Duke, 
has  clutched  the  parapet  and  sunk  on  to  a  bench. 

Duke 

{walking  up  and  down,  slowly  and  meditatively, 
after  a  pause) 

The  poets  have  fabled  many  things  con- 
cerning virtuous  women.  The  Roman  Arria, 
who  stabbed  herself  to  make  honourable 
suicide  easier  for  her  husband;  Antigone, 
who  buried  her  brother  at  the  risk  of  death ; 
and  the  Thracian  Alkestis,  who  descended 
into  the  kingdom  of  Death  in  place  of 
Admetus.  But  none,  to  my  mind,  comes  up 
to  her.  l*'or  fancy  is  but  thin  and  simple,  a 
web  of  few  bright  threads ;  whereas  reality  is 
closely  knitted  out  of  the  numberless  fibres 
of  life,  of  pain  and  joy.    For  note  it,  Diego 


32 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

—  those  antique  women  whom  we  read  of 
were  daughters  of  kings,  or  of  Romans  more 
than  kings;  bred  of  a  race  of  heroes,  and 
trained,  while  still  playing  with  dolls,  to 
pride  themselves  on  austere  duty,  and  look 
upon  the  wounds  and  maimings  of  their  soul 
as  their  brothers  and  husbands  looked  upon 
the  mutilations  of  battle.  Whereas  here ; 
here  was  a  creature  infinitely  humble;  a 
waif,  a  poor  spurned  toy  of  brutal  man- 
kind's pleasure ;  accustomed  only  to  bear 
contumely,  or  to  snatch,  unthinking,  what 
scanty  happiness  lay  along  her  difficult  and 
despised  path,  —  a  wild  creature,  who  had 
never  heard  such  words  as  duty  or  virtue ; 
and  yet  whose  acts  first  taught  me  what  they 
truly  meant. 

DiKGO 

{who  has  recovered  himself,  and  is  now  leaning 
in  bis  turn  on  the  parapet) 

Ah a  light  woman,  bought  and  sold 

many  times  over,  my  Lord;  but  who  loved, 
at  last. 

Duke 

That  is  the  shallow  and  contemptuous 
way  in  which  men  think,  Diego,  —  and  boys 
like  thee  pretend  to ;  those  to  whom  life  is 
but  a  chess-board,  a  neatly  painted  surface 


33 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

alternate  black  and  white,  most  suitable  for 
skilful  games,  with  a  soul  clean  lost  or 
gained  at  the  end!  I  thought  like  that. 
But  I  grew  to  understand  life  as  a  solid 
world:  rock,  fertile  earth,  veins  of  pure 
metal,  mere  mud,  all  strangely  mixed  and 
overlaid ;  and  eternal  fire  at  the  core !  I 
learned  it,  knowing  Magdalen. 

Diego 
Her  name  was  Magdalen } 

Duke 
So  she  bade  me  call  her. 

Diego 
And  the  name  explained  the  trade? 

Duke  {after  a  pause) 

I  cannot  understand  thee   Diego,  —  can- 
not understand  thy  lack  of  understanding 

Well    yes !     Her    trade.     All    in    this 

universe  is  trade,  trade  of  prince,  pope, 
philosopher  or  harlot;  and  once  the  badge 
put  on,  the  licence  signed  —  the  badge  a 
crown  or  a  hot  iron's  brand,  as  the  case  may 
be, — why  then  we  ply  it  according  to  pre- 
scription, and  that  *s  all !  Yes,  Diego,  —  since 
thou  obligest  me  to  say  it  in  its  harshness, 
I  do  so,  and  I  glory  for  her  in  every  con- 
temptuous  word   I   use  1  —  The   woman    I 


34 


ARIADNE  IN   MANTUA 

speak  of  was  but  a  poor  Venetian  courte- 
san ;  some  drab's  child,  sold  to  the  Infidels 
as  to  the  Christians;  and  my  cruel  pirate 
master's — shall  we  say  ?  —  mistress.  There  ! 
For  the   first  time,   Diego,  thou  dost  not 

understand  me ;  or  is  it that  I  misjudged 

thee,  thinking  thee,  dear  boy {breaks  off 

hurriedly), 

Diego  {very  slowly) 
Thinking  me  what,  my  Lord  ? 

Duke  {lightly,  hut  with  effort) 

Less  of  a  little  Sir  Paragon  of  Virtue 
than  a  dear  child,  who  is  only  a  child,  must 
be. 

Diego 

It  is  better,  perhaps,  that  your  Highness 

should  be  certain  of  my  limitations But 

I  crave  your  Highness's  pardon.  I  had 
meant  to  say  that  being  a  waif  myself,  pure 
gutter-bred,  I  have  known,  though  young, 
more  Magdalens  than  you,  my  Lord.  They 
are,  in  a  way,  my  sisters ;  and  had  I  been  a 
woman,  I  should,  likely  enough,  have  been 
one  myself. 

Duke 

You  mean,  Diego  ? 

35 


ARIADNE  IN   MANTUA 


Diego 


I  mean,  that  knowing  them  well,  I  also 
know  that  women  such  as  your  Highness 
has  described,  occasionally  learn  to  love 
most  truly.  Nay,  let  me  finish,  my  Lord ;  I 
was  not  going  to  repeat  a  mere  sentimental 
commonplace.  Briefly  then,  that  such  women, 
being  expert  in  love,  sometimes  understand, 
quicker  than  virtuous  dames  brought  up  to 
heroism,  when  love  for  them  is  cloyed. 
They  can  walk  out  of  a  man's  house  or  life 
with  due  alacrity,  being  trained  to  such  flit- 
tings.  Or,  recognising  the  first  signs  of 
weariness  before  't  is  known  to  him  who 
feels  it,  they  can  open  the  door  for  the  other 
—  hand  him  the  clue  of  the  labyrinth  with  a 
fine  theatric  gesture  1  —  But  I  crave  your 
Highness's  pardon  for  enlarging  on  this 
theme. 

Duke 

Thou  speakest  Diego,  as  if  thou  hadst  a 
mind  to  wound  thy  Master.  Is  this,  my 
friend,  the  reward  of  my  confiding  in  thee, 
even  if  tardily  ? 

Diego 

I  stand  rebuked,  my  Lord.  But,  in  my 
own  defence how  shall  I  say  it? 


36 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

Your  Highness  has  a  manner  to-night  which 
disconcerts  me  by  its  novelty;  a  saying 
things  and  then  unsaying  them ;  suggesting 
and  then,  somehow,  treading  down  the  sug- 
gestion like  a  spark  of  your  lightning. 
Lovers,  I  have  been  told,  use  such  a  manner 
to  revive  their  flagging  feeling  by  playing  on 
the  other  one*s.  Even  in  so  plain  and  solid 
a  thing  as  friendship,  such  ways  —  I  say  it 
subject  to  your  Highness's  displeasure  —  are 
dangerous.  But  in  love,  I  have  known  cases 
where,  carried  to  certain  lengths,  such  ways 
of  speaking  undermined  a  woman's  faith  and 
led  her  to  desperate  things.  Women,  despite 
their  strength,  which  often  surprises  us,  are 
brittle  creatures.  Did  you  never,  perhaps, 
make  trial  of  this Magdalen,  with 

Duke 

With  what?  Good  God,  Diego,  'tis  I 
who  ask  thy  pardon ;  and  thou  sheddest  a 
dreadful  light  upon  the  past.  But  it  is  not 
possible.  I  am  not  such  a  cur  that,  after  all 
she  did,  after  all  she  was,  —  my  life  saved  by 
her  audacity  a  hundred  times,  made  rich  and 
lovely  by  her  love,  her  wit,  her  power, — 
that  I  could  ever  have  whimpered  for  my 
freedom,  or  made  her  suspect  I  wanted  it 
more  than  I  wanted  her?  Is  it  possible, 
Diego  ? 


37 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

Diego  {slowly) 
Why  more  than  you  wanted  her?     She 
may  have  thought  the  two  compatible. 

Duke 

Never.  First,  because  my  escape  could 
not  be    compassed    save    by    her    staying 

behind;  and  then  because she  knew,  in 

fact,  what  thing  I  was,  or  must  become, 
once  set  at  liberty. 

Diego  (after  a  pause) 

I  see.     You   mean,   my   Lord,  that  you 

being  Duke  of  Mantua,  while  she If 

she  knew  that ;  knew  it  not  merely  as  a  fact, 
but  as  one  knows  the  full  savour  of  grief, — 
well,  she  was  indeed  the  paragon  you  think  ; 
one  might  indeed  say,  bating  one  point,  a 
virtuous  woman. 

Duke 
Thou  hast  understood,  dear  Diego,  and  I 
thank  thee  for  it. 

Diego 

But  I  fear,  my  Lord,  she  did  not  know 
these  things.  Such  as  she,  as  yourself 
remarked,  are  not  trained  to  conceive  of 
duty,  even  in  others.  Passion  moves  them ; 
and  they  believe  in  passion.    You  loved  her; 


38 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

good.  Why  then,  at  Mantua  as  in  Barbary. 
No,  my  dear  Master,  believe  me;  she  had 
seen  your  love  was  turning  stale,  and  set  you 
free,  rather  than  taste  its  staleness.  Passion, 
like  duty,  has  its  pride ;  and  even  we  waifs, 
as  gypsies,  have  our  point  of  honour. 

Duke 

Stale  !  My  love  grown  stale  I  You  make 
me  laugh,  boy,  instead  of  angering.  Stale  I 
You  never  knew  her.  She  was  not  like  a 
song  —  even  your  sweetest  song  —  which, 
heard  too  often,  cloys,  its  phrases  dropping 
to  senseless  notes.  She  was  like  music, — 
the  whole  art :  new  modes,  new  melodies, 
new  rhythms,  with  every  day  and  hour,  pas- 
sionate or  sad,  or  gay,  or  very  quiet ;  more 
wondrous  notes  than  in  thy  voice  ;  and  more 
strangely  sweet,  even  when  they  grated,  than 
the  tone  of  those  newfangled  fiddles,  which 
wound  the  ear  and  pour  balm  in,  they  make 
now  at  Cremona. 

Diego 

You  loved  her  then,  sincerely  ? 

Duke 

Methinks  it  may  be  Diego  now,  torment- 
ing his  Master  with  needless  questions. 
Loved  her,  boy  1     I  love  her. 


39 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

A  long  pause.  Diego  has  covered  his  face ^ 
with  a  gesture  as  if  about  to  speak.  But  the 
moon  has  suddenly  risen  from  behind  the  pop- 
lars^ and  put  scales  of  silver  light  upon  the 
ripples  of  the  lake^  and  a  pale  luminous  mist 
around  the  palace.  As  the  light  invades  the 
terrace,  a  sort  of  chill  has  come  upon  both 
speakers;  they  walk  up  and  down  further 
from  one  another. 

Diego 

A  marvellous  story,  dear  Master.  And  I 
thank  you  from  my  heart  for  having  told  it 
me.  I  always  loved  you,  and  I  thought  I 
knew  you.  I  know  you  better  still,  now. 
You  are a  most  magnanimous  prince. 

Duke 

Alas,  dear  lad,  I  am  but  a  poor  prisoner  of 
my  duties  ;  a  poorer  prisoner,  and  a  sadder 

far,  than  there  in  Barbary O  Diego,  how 

I  have  longed  for  her!  How  deeply  I  still 
long,  sometimes  !  But  I  open  my  eyes,  force 
myself  to  stare  reality  in  the  face,  whenever 
her  image  comes  behind  closed  lids,  driving 

her  from  me And  to  end  my  confession. 

At  the  beginning,  Diego,  there  seemed  in  thy 
voice  and  manner  something  of  her  ;  I  saw  her 
sometimes  in  thee,  as  children  see  the  elves 
they  fear  and  hope  for  in  stains  on  walls  and 


40 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

flickers  on  the  path.  And  all  thy  wondrous 
power,  thy  miraculous  cure  —  nay,  forgive 
what  seems  ingratitude  —  was  due,  Diego,  to 
my  sick  fancy  making  me  see  glances  of  her 
in  thy  eyes  and  hear  her  voice  in  thine.  Not 
music  but  love,  love's  delusion,  was  what 
worked  my  cure. 

Diego 

Do  you  speak  truly,  Master  ?  Was  it  so  ? 
And  now  ? 

Duke 

Now,  dear  lad,  I  am  cured  —  completely ; 
I  know  bushes  from  ghosts ;  and  I  know 
thee,  dearest  friend,  to  be  Diego. 

Diego 

When  these  imaginations  still  held  you, 
my  Lord,  did  it  ever  happen  that  you  won- 
dered :  what  if  the  bush  had  been  a  ghost ; 
if  Diego  had  turned  into  —  what  was  she 

called  ? 

Duke 

Magdalen.  My  fancy  never  went  so  far, 
good  Diego.     There  was  a  grain  of  reason 

left.     But  if  it  had Well,  I  should  have 

taken  Magdalen's  hand,  and  said, "  Welcome, 
dear  sister.  This  is  a  world  of  spells;  let 
us   repeat   some.     Become   henceforth   my 


41 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

brother;  be  the  Duke  of  Mantua's  best  and 
truest  friend;  turn  into  Diego,  Magdalen." 

The  Duke  presses  Diego's  arm,  and,  let- 
ting it  gOy  walks  away  into  the  moonlight  with 
an  enigmatic  air.    A  long  pause. 

Hark,  they  are  singing  within;  the  idle 
pages  making  songs  to  their  ladies'  eye- 
brows.    Shall  we  go  and  listen  ? 

( They  walk  in  the  direction  of  the  palace^ 

And  {with  a  little  hesitation)  that  makes  me 
say,  Diego,  before  we  close  this  past  of 
mine,  and  bury  it  for  ever  in  our  silence,  that 
there  is  a  little  Moorish  song,  plaintive  and 
quaint,  she  used  to  sing,  which  some  day  I 
will  write  down,  and  thou  shalt  sing  it  to  me 
—  on  my  deathbed. 

Diego 

Why  not  before  ?  Speaking  of  songs,  that 
mandolin,  though  out  of  tune,  and  vilely 
played,  has  got  hold  of  a  ditty  I  like  well 
enough.  Hark,  the  words  are  Tuscan, 
well  known  in  the  mountains.     (Sings.) 

I'd  like  to  die,  but  die  a  little  death  only  ; 

I'd  like  to  die,  but  look  down  from  the  window ; 

I'd  like  to  die,  but  stand  upon  the  doorstep  ; 
I'd  like  to  die,  but  follow  the  procession  ; 

I'd  like  to  die,  but  see  who  smiles  and  weepeth  ; 

I'd  like  to  die,  but  die  a  little  death  only. 


42 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

{IVbile  Diego  sings  very  loud^  the  mandolin 
inside  the  palace  thrums  faster  and  faster.  As 
he  ends,  with  a  long  defiant  leap  into  a  high 
note,  a  hurst  of  applause  from  the  palace.) 

Diego  {clapping  his  hands) 
Well  sung,  Diego  1 


43 


ACT  IV 

A  FEW  weeks  later.  The  new  music  room 
in  the  Palace  of  Mantua.  IVindows  on 
both  sides  admitting  a  view  of  the  lake,  so  that 
the  hall  looks  like  a  gallej>  surrounded  by  water. 
Outside,  morning:  the  lake^  the  sky,  and  the 
lines  of  poplars  on  the  banks,  are  all  made  of 
various  textures  of  luminous  blue.  From  the 
gardens  below,  bay  trees  raise  their  flowering 
branches  against  the  windows.  In  every  win- 
dow an  antique  statue :  the  Mantuan  Muse,  the 
Mantuan  Apollo,  etc.  In  the  walls  between 
the  windows  are  framed  panels  representing 
allegorical  triumphs :  those  nearest  the  spectator 
are  the  triumphs  of  Chastity  and  of  Fortitude, 
At  the  end  of  the  room,  steps  and  a  balustrade^ 
with  a  harpsichord  and  double  basses  on  a  dais. 
The  roof  of  the  room  is  blue  and  gold  ;  a  deep 
blue  ground,  constellated  with  a  gold  labyrinth 
in  relief.  Round  the  cornice,  blue  and  gold 
also,  the  inscription :  *'  Rectas  peto,"  and 
the  name  Ferdinandus  Mantuae  Dux. 

The  Princess  Hippolyta  of  Mirandola, 
cousin  to  the  Duke  ;  and  Diego.  Hippolyta 
is  very  young,  but  with  the  strength  and  grace, 
and  the  candour,  rather  of  a  beautiful  bey  than 
of  a  woman.  She  is  da^lingly  fair  ;  and  her 
hair,  arranged  in  waves  like  an  antique  ama- 
l<m*s,  is  stiff  and  lustrous^  as  if  made  of 


ARIADNE  IN  MANTUA 

threads  of  gold.  The  brows  are  wide  and 
straight  y  like  a  marCs  ;  the  glance  fearless^  hut 
virginal  and  almost  childlike.  Hippolyta  is 
dressed  in  black  and  gold,  particoloured,  like 
Mantegna's  Duchess.  An  old  man,  in  scholar's 
gown,  the  Princess's  Greek  Tutor,  has  just 
introduced  Diego  and  retired. 

Diego 
The   Duke   your   cousin's    greeting    and 
service,  illustrious  damsel.     His   Highness 
bids  me  ask  how  you  are  rested  after  your 
journey  hither. 

Princess 
Tell  my  cousin,  good  Signor  Diego,  that  I 
am  touched  at  his  concern  for  me.  And  tell 
him,  such  is  the  virtuous  air  of  his  abode, 
that  a  whole  night's  rest  sufficed  to  right  me 
from  the  fatigue  of  two  hours'  journey  in  a 
litter ;  for  I  am  new  to  that  exercise,  being 
accustomed  to  follow  my  poor  father's 
hounds  and  falcons  only  on  horseback.  You 
shall  thank  the  Duke  my  cousin  for  his  civil- 
ity.   (Princess  laughs.) 

Diego 

{bowing,  and  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  Princess 

as  he  speaks) 

His    Highness   wished  to  make  his  fair 

cousin  smile.     He  has  told  me  often  how 


45 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

your  illustrious  father,  the  late  Lord  of 
Mirandola,  brought  his  only  daughter  up  in 
such  a  wise  as  scarcely  to  lack  a  son,  with 
manly  disciplines  of  mind  and  body;  and 
that  he  named  you  fittingly  after  Hippolyta, 
who  was  Queen  of  the  Amazons,  virgins 
unlike  their  vain  and  weakly  sex. 

Princess 
She  was;  and  wife  of  Theseus.  But  it 
seems  that  the  poets  care  but  little  for  the 
like  of  her;  they  tell  us  nothing  of  her, 
compared  with  her  poor  predecessor,  Cretan 
Ariadne,  she  who  had  given  Theseus  the 
clue  of  the  labyrinth.  Methinks  that  maze 
must  have  been  mazier  than  this  blue  and 
gold  one  overhead.  What  say  you,  Signor 
Diego  ? 

Diego  {who  has  started  slightly) 

Ariadne?  Was  she  the  predecessor  of 
Hippolyta  ?  I  did  not  know  it.  I  am  but  a 
poor  scholar,  Madam;  knowing  the  names 
and  stories  of  gods  and  heroes  only  from 
songs  and  masques.  The  Duke  should  have 
selected  some  fitter  messenger  to  hold  con- 
verse with  his  fair  learned  cousin. 

Princess  {gravelv) 
Speak  not  like  that,  Signor  Diego.     You 
may  not  be  a  scholar,  as  you  say  ;  but  surely 


46 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

you  are  a  philosopher.  Nay,  conceive  my 
meaning:  the  fame  of  your  virtuous  equa- 
nimity has  spread  further  than  from  this  city 
to  my  small  dominions.  Your  precocious 
wisdom  —  for  you  seem  younger  than  I,  and 
youths  do  not  delight  in  being  very  wise  — 
your  moderation  in  the  use  of  sudden 
greatness,  your  magnanimous  treatment  of 
enemies  and  detractors ;  and  the  manner  in 
which,  disdainful  of  all  personal  advantage, 
you  have  surrounded  the  Duke  my  cousin 
with  wisest  counsellors  and  men  expert  in 

office such   are   the   results   men    seek 

from  the  study  of  philosophy. 

Diego 

{at  first  astonished,  then  amused,  a  little  sadly) 

You  are  mistaken,  noble  maiden.  'T  is 
not  philosophy  to  refrain  from  things  that 
do  not  tempt  one.  Riches  or  power  are 
useless  to  me.  As  for  the  rest,  you  are  mis- 
taken also.  The  Duke  is  wise  and  valiant, 
and  chooses  therefore  wise  and  valiant 
counsellors. 

Princess  {impetuously) 

You  are  eloquent,  Signor  Diego,  even  as 
you  are  wise !  But  your  words  do  not 
deceive  me.  Ambition  lurks  in  every  one  ; 
and  power  intoxicates  all  save  those  who 


47 


ARIADNE    IN    MANTUA 

have   schooled   themselves   to  use   it  as   a 
means  to  virtue. 

Diego 
The  thought  had  never  struck  me;   but 
men  have  told  me  what  you  tell  me  now. 

Princess 

Even  Antiquity,  which  surpasses  us  so 
vastly  in  all  manner  of  wisdom  and  heroism, 
can  boast  of  very  few  like  you.  The  noblest 
souls  have  grown  tyrannical  and  rapacious 
and  foolhardy  in  sudden  elevation.  Remem- 
ber Alcibiades,  the  beloved  pupil  of  the 
wisest  of  all  mortals.  Signor  Diego,  you 
may  have  read  but  little;  but  you  have 
meditated  to  much  profit,  and  must  have 
wrestled  like  some  great  athlete  with  all  that 
baser  self  which  the  divine  Plato  has  told  us 
how  to  master. 

Diego  {shaking  bis  bead) 

Alas,  Madam,  your  words  make  me 
ashamed,  and  yet  they  make  me  smile,  being 
so  far  of  the  mark  !  I  have  wrestled  with 
nothing;  followed  only  my  soul's  blind 
impulses. 

Princess  (gravely) 

It  must  be,  then,  dear  Signor  Diego,  as 
the   Pythagoreans   held:    the   discipline   of 


48 


ARIADNE  IN  MANTUA 

music  is  virtuous  for  the  soul.  There  is  a 
power  in  numbered  and  measured  sound 
very  akin  to  wisdom ;  mysterious  and  excel- 
lent ;  as  indeed  the  Ancients  fabled  in  the 
tales  of  Orpheus  and  Amphion,  musicians 
and  great  sages  and  legislators  of  states.  I 
have  long  desired  your  conversation,  admir- 
able Diego. 

Diego  [with  secret  contempt) 
Noble  maiden,  such  words  exceed  my 
poor  unscholarly  appreciation.  The  antique 
worthies  whom  you  name  are  for  me  merely 
figures  in  tapestries  and  frescoes,  quaint 
greybeards  in  laurel  wreaths  and  helmets ; 
and  I  can  scarcely  tell  whether  the  Ladies 
Fortitude  and  Rhetoric  with  whom  they 
hold  converse,  are  real  daughters  of  kings, 
or  mere  Arts  and  Virtues.  But  the  Duke,  a 
learned  and  judicious  prince,  will  set  due 
store  by  his  youthful  cousin's  learning.  As 
for  me,  simpleton  and  ignoramus  that  I  am, 
all  I  see  is  that  Princess  Hippolyta  is  very 
beautiful  and  very  young. 
Princess 
{sighing  a  little,  hut  with  great  simplicity) 
I  know  it.  I  am  young,  and  perhaps 
crude ;  although  I  study  hard  to  learn  the 
rules  of  wisdom.  You,  Diego,  seem  to  know 
them  without  study. 


49 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Diego 

I  know  somewhat  of  the  world  and  of 
men,  gracious  Princess,  but  that  can  scarce 
be  called  knowing  wisdom.  Say  rather  know- 
ing blindness,  envy,  cruelty,  endless  nameless 
folly  in  others  and  oneself.  But  why  should 
you  seek  to  be  wise  ?  you  who  are  fair, 
young,  a  princess,  and  betrothed  from  your 
cradle  to  a  great  prince  .'*  Be  beautiful,  be 
young,  be  what  you  are,  a  woman. 

Diego  has  said  this  last  word  with  emphasis^ 
but  the  Princess  has  not  noticed  the  sarcasm 
in  his  voice. 

Princess  {shaking  her  head) 

That  is  not  my  lot.  I  was  destined,  as 
you  said,  to  be  the  wife  of  a  great  prince ; 
and  my  dear  father  trained  me  to  fill  that 
office. 

DiKGO 

Well,  and  to  be  beautiful,  young,  radiant; 
to  be  a  woman;  is  not  that  the  office  of  a 
wife  ? 

Princess 

I  have  not  much  experience.  But  my 
father  told  me,  and  I  have  gathered  from 
books,  that  in  the  wives  of  princes,  such 


SO 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

gifts  are  often  thrown  away;  that  other 
women,  supplying  them,  seem  to  supply 
them  better.  Look  at  my  cousin's  mother. 
I  can  remember  her  still  beautiful,  young, 
and  most  tenderly  loving.  Yet  the  Duke, 
my  uncle,  disdained  her,  and  all  she  got  was 
loneliness  and  heartbreak.  An  honourable 
woman,  a  j)rincess,  cannot  compete  with 
those  who  study  to  please  and  to  please 
only.  She  must  either  submit  to  being 
ousted  from  her  husband's  love,  or  soar 
above  it  into  other  regions. 

Diego  {interested) 
Other  regions  ? 

Princess 

Higher  ones.  She  must  be  fit  to  be  her 
husband's  help,  and  to  nurse  his  sons  to 
valour  and  wisdom. 

Diego 

I  see.  The  Prince  must  know  that  besides 
all  the  knights  that  he  summons  to  battle, 
and  all  the  wise  men  whom  he  hears  in 
council,  there  is  another  knight,  in  rather 
lighter  armour  and  quicker  tired,  another 
counsellor,  less  experienced  and  of  less 
steady  temper,  ready  for  use.  Is  this  great 
gain? 


SI 


ARIADNE  IN   MANTUA 

Princess 

It  is  strange  that  being  a  man,  you  should 
conceive  of  women  from 

Diego 
From  a  man's  standpoint  ? 

Princess 

Nay  ;  methinks  a  woman's.  For  I  observe 
that  women,  when  they  wish  to  help  men, 
think  first  of  all  of  some  transparent  mas- 
querade, donning  men's  clothes,  at  all  events 
in  metaphor,  in  order  to  be  near  their  lovers 
when  not  wanted. 

Diego  {hastily) 

Donning  men's  clothes  ?  A  masquerade  ? 
I  fail  to  follow  your  meaning,  gracious 
maiden. 

Princess  (simply) 

So  I  have  learned  at  least  from  our  poets. 
Angelica,  and  Bradamante  and  Fiordispina, 
scouring  the  country  after  their  lovers,  who 
were  busy  enough  without  them.  I  prefer 
Penelope,  staying  at  home  to  save  the  lands 
and  goods  of  Ulysses,  and  bringing  up  his 
son  to  rescue  and  avenge  him. 


52 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

Diego  {reassured  and  indifferent) 

Did  Ulysses  love  Penelope  any  better  for 
it,  Madam  ?  better  than  poor  besotted  Mene- 
laus,  after  all  his  injuries,  loved  Helen  back 
in  Sparta  ? 

Princess 

That  is  not  the  question.  A  woman  born 
to  be  a  prince's  wife  and  prince's  mother, 
does  her  work  not  for  the  sake  of  something 
greater  than  love,  whether  much  or  little. 

Diego 
For  what  then  ? 

Princess 

Does  a  well-bred  horse  or  excellent  fal- 
con do  its  duty  to  please  its  master  ?  No  ; 
but  because  such  is  its  nature.  Similarly, 
methinks,  a  woman  bred  to  be  a  princess 
works  with  her  husband,  for  her  husband, 
not  for  any  reward,  but  because  he  and  she 
are  of  the  same  breed,  and  obey  the  same 
instincts. 

Diego 

Ah  ! Then  happiness,  love, —  all  that 

a  woman  craves  for  ? 


53 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

Princess 
Are  accidents.  Are  they  not  so  in  the  life 
of  a  prince  ?  Love  he  may  snatch ;  and  she, 
being  in  woman's  fashion  not  allowed  to 
snatch,  may  receive  as  a  gift,  or  not.  But 
received  or  snatched,  it  is  not  either's  busi- 
ness; not  their  nature's  true  fulfilment. 

Diego 
You  think  so,  Lady  > 

Princess 
I  am  bound  to  think  so.     I  was  born  to  it 
and  taught  it.     You  know  the  Duke,  my 
cousin, —  well,  I  am  his   bride,  not  being 
bom  his  sister. 

Diego 
And  you  are  satisfied?  O  beautiful  Prin- 
cess, you  are  of  illustrious  lineage  and  mind, 
and  learned.  Your  father  brought  you  up  on 
Plutarch  instead  of  Amadis ;  you  know  many 
things ;  but  there  is  one,  methinks,  no  one 
can  know  the  nature  of  it  until  he  has  it. 

Princess 
What  is  that,  pray  ? 

Diego 
A  heart.     Because  you  have  not  got  one 
yet,  you    make  your  plans  without  it,  —  a 
negligible  item  in  your  life. 


S4 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Princess 
I  am  not  a  child. 

Diego 
But  not  yet  a  woman. 

Princess  {meditative Ij;) 
You  think,  then  — — 

Diego 

I  do  not  think ;  I  know.  And  jfou  will 
know,  some  day.     And  then 

Princess 

Then  I  shall  suffer.  Why,  we  must  all 
suffer.  Say  that,  having  a  heart,  a  heart  for 
husband  or  child,  means  certain  grief, —  well, 
does  not  riding,  walking  down  your  stairs, 
mean  the  chance  of  broken  bones  ?  Does 
not  living  mean  old  age,  disease,  possible 
blindness  or  paralysis,  and  quite  inevitable 
aches  ?  If,  as  you  say,  I  must  needs  grow  a 
heart,  and  if  a  heart  must  needs  give  agony, 
why,  I  shall  live  through  heartbreak  as 
through  pain  in  any  other  limb. 

Diego 

Yes, —  were  your  heart  a  limb  like  all  the 
rest, —  but  't  is  the  very  centre  and  fountain 
of  all  life. 


55 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Princess 

You  think  so  ?  *T  is,  methinks,  pushing 
analogy  too  far,  and  metaphor.  This  nece&^ 
sary  organ,  diffusing  life  throughout  us,  and, 
as  physicians  say,  removing  with  its  vigorous 
floods  all  that  has  ceased  to  live,  replacing  it 
with  new  and  living  tissue, —  this  great  literal 
heart  cannot  be  the  seat  of  only  one  small 
passion. 

Diego 

Yet  I  have  known  more  women  than  one 
die  of  that  small  passion's  frustrating. 

Princess 

But  you  have  known  also,  I  reckon,  many 
a  man  in  whom  life,  what  he  had  to  live  for* 
was  stronger  than  all  love.  They  say  the 
Duke  my  cousin's  melancholy  sickness  was 
due  to  love  which  he  had  outlived. 

Diego 

They  say  so,  Madam. 

Princess  {thoughtfully) 

I  think  it  possible,  from  what  I  know  of 
him.  He  was  much  with  my  father  when  a 
lad;  and  I,  a  child,  would  listen  to  their 
converse,  not  understanding  its  items,  but 
seeming   to   understand   the   general   drift. 


56 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

My  father  often  said  my  cousin  was  roman- 
tic, favoured  overmuch  his  tender  mother, 
and  would  suffer  greatly,  learning  to  live  for 
valour  and  for  wisdom. 

Diego 
Think  you  he  has,  Madam  ? 

Princess 
If  't  is  true  that  occasion  has  already  come. 

Diego 

And  —  if  that  occasion  came,  for  the  first 
time  or  for  the  second,  perhaps,  after  your 
marriage  ?     What  would  you  do,  Madam  ? 

Princess 

I  cannot  tell  as  yet.  Help  him,  I  trust, 
when  help  could  come,  by  the  sympathy  of 
a  soul's  strength  and  serenity.  Stand  aside, 
most    likely,    waiting    to    be    wanted.     Or 

else 

Diego 

Or  else,  illustrious  maiden  ? 

Princess 

Or  else 1  know  not perhaps,  grow  - 

ing  a  heart,  get  some  use  from  it. 


57 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Diego 

Your  Highness  surely  does  not  mean  use  it 
to  love  with  ? 

Princess 

Why  not  ?  It  might  be  one  way  of  help. 
And  if  I  saw  him  struggling  with  grief,  seek- 
ing to  live  the  life  and  think  the  thought 
fit  for  his  station ;  why,  methinks  I  could 
love  him.  He  seems  lovable.  Only  love 
could  have  taught  fidelity  like  yours. 

Diego 

You  forget,  gracious  Princess,  that  you 
attributed  great  power  of  virtue  to  a  habit 
of  conduct,  which  is  like  the  nature  of  high- 
bred horses,  needing  no  spur.  But  in  truth 
you  are  right.  I  am  no  high-bred  creature. 
Quite  the  contrary.  Like  curs,  I  love ;  love, 
and  only  love.  For  curs  are  known  to  love 
their  masters. 

Princess 

Speak  not  thus,  virtuous  Diego.  I  have 
indeed  talked  in  magnanimous  fashion,  and 
believed,  sincerely,  that  I  felt  high  resolves. 
But  you  have  acted,  lived,  and  done  mag- 
nanimously. What  you  have  been  and  are 
to  the  Duke  is  better  schooling  for  me  than 
all  the  Lives  of  Plutarch. 


S8 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Diego 
You  could  not  learn  from  me,  Lady. 

Princess 
But  I  would  try,  Diego. 

Diego 

Be  not  grasping,  Madam.  The  generous 
coursers  whom  your  father  taught  you  to 
break  and  harness  have  their  set  of  virtues. 
Those  of  curs  are  different.  Do  not  grudge 
them  those.  Your  noble  horses  kick  them 
enough,  without  even  seeing  their  presence. 
But  I  feel  I  am  beyond  my  depth,  not  being 
philosophical  by  nature  or  schooling.  And 
I  had  forgotten  to  give  you  part  of  his  High- 
ness's  message.  Knowing  your  love  of 
music,  and  the  attention  you  have  given  it, 
the  Duke  imagined  it  might  divert  you,  till 
he  was  at  leisure  to  pay  you  homage,  to 
make  trial  of  my  poor  powers.  Will  it 
please  you  to  order  the  other  musicians, 
Madam  ?  * 

Princess 

Nay,  good  Diego,  humour  me  in  this.  I 
have  studied  music,  and  would  fain  make 
trial  of  accompanying  your  voice.  Have 
you  notes  by  you  ? 


59 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Diego 

Here  are  some,  Madam,  left  for  the  use  of 
his  Highness's  band  this  evening.  Here  is 
the  pastoral  of  Phyllis  by  Ludovic  of  the 
Lute ;  a  hymn  in  four  parts  to  the  Virgin  by 
Orlandus  Lassus  ;  a  madrigal  by  the  Pope's 
Master,  Signor  Pierluigi  of  Praeneste.  Ah  ! 
Here  is  a  dramatic  scene  between  Medea 
and  Creusa,  rivals  in  love,  by  the  Florentine 
Octavio.  Have  you  knowledge  of  it,  Madam  ? 

Princess 

I  have  sung  it  with  my  master  for  exercise. 
But,  good  Diego,  find  a  song  for  yourself. 

Diego 

You  shall  humour  me,  now,  gracious  Lady. 
Think  I  am  your  master.  I  desire  to  hear 
your  voice.  And  who  knows  ?  In  this  small 
matter  I  may  really  teach  you  something. 

The  Princess  sits  to  the  harpsichord^ 
Diego  standing  beside  her  on  the  dais.  They 
sing,  the  Princess  taking  the  treble,  Diego 
the  contralto  part.  The  Princess  enters  first 
with  a  full-toned  voice  clear  and  high,  singing 
very  carefully.  Diego  follows,  singing  in  a 
whisper.  His  voice  is  a  little  husky,  and  here 
and  there  broken,  but  ineffably  delicious  and 
penetrating,  and,  as  he  sings,  becomes^  without 


60 


ARIADNE  IN   MANTUA 

quitting  the  wbisper,  dominating  and  disquiet- 
ing. The  Princess  plajys  a  wrong  chords  and 
breaks  off  suddenly. 

Diego 

{having  finished  a  cadence^  rudely) 
What  is  it,  Madam  ? 

Princess 

I  know  not.    I  have  lost  my  place 1 

1  feel  bewildered.     When  your  voice 

rose  up  against  mine,  Diego,  I  lost  my  head. 
And  —  I  do  not  know  how  to  express  it  — 
when  our  voices  met  in  that  held  dissonance, 
it  seemed  as  if  you  hurt  me horribly. 

Diego 

{smilingi  with  hypocritical  apology) 

Forgive  me.  Madam.  I  sang  too  loud, 
perhaps.  We  theatre  singers  are  apt  to 
strain  things.  I  trust  some  day  to  hear  you 
sing  alone.  You  have  a  lovely  voice  :  more 
like  a  boy's  than  like  a  maiden's  still. 

Princess 

And  yours 'tis  strange  that  at  your 

age  we  should  reverse  the  parts, —  yours, 
though  deeper  than  mine,  is  like  a  woman's. 


6i 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

Diego  (laughing) 

I  have  grown  a  heart,  Madam ;  'tis  an 
organ  grows  quicker  where  the  breed  is 
mixed  and  lowly,  no  nobler  limbs  retarding 
its  development  by  theirs. 

Princess 

Speak  not  thus,  excellent  Diego.  Why 
cause  me  pain  by  disrespectful  treatment  of 
a  person  —  your  own  admirable  self  —  whom 
I  respect  ?  You  have  experience,  Diego, 
and  shall  teach  me  many  things,  for  I  desire 
learning. 

The  Princess  takes  bis  band  in  both  bers, 
very  kindly  and  simply.  Diego,  disengaging 
bis,  bows  very  ceremoniously. 

Diego 

Shall  I  teach  you  to  sing  as  I  do,  gracious 
Madam  ? 

Princess  (after  a  moment) 
I  think  not,  Diego. 


62 


ACT  V 

Two  months  later.  The  wedding  day  of 
the  Duke.  Another  part  of  the  Palace 
of  Mantua.  A  long  terrace  still  to  he  seen, 
with  roof  supported  hy  columns.  It  looks  on 
one  side  on  to  the  jousting  ground,  a  green 
meadow  surrounded  hy  clipped  hedges  and  set 
all  round  with  mulberry  trees.  On  the  other 
side  it  overlooks  the  lake,  against  whichy  as  a 
fact,  it  acts  as  dyke.  The  Court  of  Mantua 
and  Envoys  of  foreign  Princes,  together  with 
many  Prelates,  are  assembled  on  the  terrace, 
surrounding  the  seats  of  the  Duke,  the  young 
Duchess  Hippolyta,  the  Duchess  Dow- 
ager and  the  Cardinal.  Facing  this  gallery, 
and  separated  from  it  by  a  line  of  sedge  and 
willows,  and  a  few  yards  of  pure  green  water, 
starred  with  white  lilies,  is  a  stage  in  the  shape 
of  a  Grecian  temple,  apparently  rising  out  of 
the  lake.  Its  pediment  and  columns  are  slung 
with  garlands  of  hay  and  cypress.  In  the 
gable,  the  Duke's  device  of  a  labyrinth  in 
gold  on  a  blue  ground  and  the  motto : "  Recta  s 
PETO."  On  the  stage,  but  this  side  of  the 
curtain,  which  is  down,  are  a  number  of  Musi- 
cians with  violins,  viols,  theorbs,  a  hautboy,  a 
flute,  a  bassoon,  viola  d*amore  and  bass  viols, 
grouped  round  two  men  with  double  basses  and 
a  man  at  a  harpsichord,  in  dress   like  the 


63 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

musicians  in  yeronese^s  paintings.  They  are 
preluding  gently,  playing  elaborately  fugued 
variations  on  a  dance  tune  in  tbree-eigbtb  tinier 
rendered  singularly  plaintive  by  the  absence  of 
perfect  closes. 

Cardinal 
{to  Venetian  Ambassador) 

What  say  you  to  our  Diego's  masque,  my 
Lord  ?  Does  not  his  skill  as  a  composer  vie 
almost  with  his  sublety  as  a  singer  ? 

Marchioness  of  Guastalla 
{to  the  Duchess  Dowager) 

A  most  excellent  masque,  methinks.  Mad- 
am. And  of  so  new  a  kind.  We  have  had 
masques  in  palaces  and  also  in  gardens,  and 
some,  I  own  it,  beautiful ;  for  our  palace  on 
the  hill  affords  fine  vistas  of  cypress  avenues 
and  the  distant  plain.  But,  until  the  Duke 
your  son,  no  one  has  had  a  masque  on  the 
water,  it  would  seem.  'Tis  doubtless  his 
invention  ? 

Duchess 
{with  evident  preoccupation) 

I  think  not.  Madam.  *Tis  our  foolish 
Diego's  freak.  And  I  confess  I  like  it  not. 
It  makes  me  anxious  for  the  players. 


64 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

Bishop  of  Cremona  {to  the  Cardinal) 

A  wondrous  singer,  your  Signor  Diego. 
They  say  the  Spaniards  have  subtle  exer- 
cises for  keeping  the  voice  thus  youthful. 
His  Holiness  has  several  such  who  sing 
divinely  under  Pierluigi's  guidance.  But 
your  Diego  seems  really  but  a  child,  yet  has 
a  mode  of  singing  like  one  who  knows  a 
world  of  joys  and  sorrows. 

Cardinal 
He  has.     Indeed,  I  sometimes  think  he 
pushes  the  pathetic  quality  too  far.     I  am 
all  for  the  Olympic   serenity   of  the  wise 
Ancients. 

Young  Duchess  {laughing) 
My   uncle   would,   I   almost   think,  exile 
our  divine  Diego,  as  Plato  did  the  poets,  for 
moving  us  too  much. 

Prince  of  Massa  {whispering) 
He    has    moved     your    noble    husband 
strangely.     Or  is  it,  gracious  bride,  that  too 
much  happiness  overwhelms  our  friend  ? 

Young  Duchess 
{turning  round  and  noticing  the  Duke,  a  few 
seats  off) 
*T  is  true.     Ferdinand  is  very  sensitive  to 


6s 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

music,    and    is  greatly   concerned   for   our 
Diego's  play.     Still 1  wonder . 

Marchioness  {to  the  Duke  of  Ferrara's 
Poet,  who  is  standing  near  her) 

I  really  never  could  have  recognised  Sig- 
nor  Diego  in  his  disguise.  He  looks  for  all 
the  world  exactly  like  a  woman. 

Poet 

A  woman!  Say  a  goddess,  Madam! 
Upon  my  soul  {whispering),  the  bride  is  scsarce 
as  beautiful  as  he,  although  as  fair  as  one  of 
the  noble  swans  who  sail  on  those  clear 
waters. 

Jester 

After  the  play  we  shall  see  admiring  dames 
trooping  behind  the  scenes  to  learn  the  secret 
of  the  paints  which  can  change  a  scrubby 
boy  into  a  beauteous  nymph;  a  metamor- 
phosis worth  twenty  of  Sir  Ovid's. 

Doge's  Wife  {to  the  Duke) 

They  all  tell  me  —  but  'tis  a  secret  natu- 
rally—  that  the  words  of  this  ingenious 
masque  are  from  your  Highness's  own  pen ; 
and  that  you  helped  —  such  are  your  varied 
gifts  —  your  singing-page  to  set  them  to 
music. 


66 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

Duke  {impatiently) 

It  may  be  that  your  Serenity  is  rightly 
informed,  or  not. 

Knight  of  Malta  {to  Young  Duchess) 

One  recognises,  at  least,  the  mark  of  Duke 
Ferdinand's  genius  in  the  suiting  of  the  play 
to  the  surroundings.  Given  these  lakes, 
what  fitter  argument  than  Ariadne  aban- 
doned on  her  little  island  ?  And  the  laby- 
rinth in  the  story  is  a  pretty  allusion  to  your 
lord's  personal  device  and  the  magnificent 
ceiling  he  lately  designed  for  our  admira- 
tion. 

Young  Duchess 

{with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  curtain^  which  begins 
to  move) 

Nay,  't  is  all  Diego's  thought.  Hush,  they 
begin  to  play.  Oh,  my  heart  beats  with 
curiosity  to  know  how  our  dear  Diego  will 
carry  his  invention  through,  and  to  hear  the 
last  song  which  he  has  never  let  me  hear 
him  sing. 

The  curtain  is  drawn  aside^  displaying  the 
stage,  set  with  orange  and  myrtle  trees  in  jars, 
and  a  big  flowering  oleander.  There  is  no 
painted  background ;  but  instead,  the  lake,  with 
distant  shore,  and  the  sky  with  the  sun  slowly 


67 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

descendirtfr  into  clouds^  which  light  up  purple 
and  crimson,  and  send  rosy  streamers  into  the 
high  blue  air.  On  the  stage  a  rout  of  Bac- 
chanals, dressed  like  Mantegna's  Hours,  hut 
with  vine- garlands ;  also  Satyrs  quaintly 
dressed  in  goatskins,  but  with  top-knots  of 
ribbons,  all  singing  a  Latin  ode  in  praise  of 
Bacchus  and  wine;  while  girls  dressed  as 
nymphs,  with  ribboned  thyrsi  in  their  hands, 
dance  a  pavana  before  a  throne  of  moss  over- 
hung by  ribboned  garlands.  On  this  throne 
are  seated  a  Tenor  as  Bacchus,  dressed  in 
russet  and  leopard  skins,  a  garland  of  vine 
leaves  round  his  waist  and  round  his  wide- 
brimmed  hat;  and  Diego,  as  Ariadne. 
Diego,  no  lottger  habited  as  a  man,  but  in 
woman*s  garments,  like  those  of  Guerdno's 
Sibyls  :  a  floating  robe  and  vest  of  orange  and 
violet,  open  at  the  throat ;  with  particoloured 
scarves  hanging,  and  a  particoloured  scarf 
wound  like  a  turban  round  the  head,  the  locks 
of  dark  hair  escaping  from  befieath.  She  is 
extremely  beautiful. 

Magdalen  {sometime  known  as  Diego, 
now  representing  Ariadne)  rises  from  the 
throne  and  speaks,  turning  to  Bacchus.  Her 
voice  is  a  contralto,  but  not  deep,  and  with 
upper  notes  like  a  hautboys.  She  speaks  in  an 
irregular  recitative,  sustained  by  chords  on  the 
viols  and  harpsichord. 


68 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

Ariadne 

Tempt  me  not,  gentle  Bacchus,  sunburnt 
god  of  ruddy  vines  and  rustic  revelry.  The 
gifts  you  bring,  the  queenship  of  the  world 
of  wine-inspired  Fancies,  cannot  quell  my 
grief  at  Theseus*  loss. 

Bacchus  {tenor) 

Princess,  I  do  beseech  you,  give  me  leave 
to  try  and  soothe  your  anguish.  Daughter 
of  Cretan  Minos,  stern  Judge  of  the  Departed, 
your  rearing  has  been  too  sad  for  youth  and 
beauty,  and  the  shade  of  Orcus  has  ever  lain 
across  your  path.  But  I  am  God  of  Glad- 
ness; I  can  take  your  soul,  suspend  it  in 
Mirth's  sun,  even  as  the  grapes,  translucent 
amber  or  rosy,  hang  from  the  tendril  in  the 
ripening  sun  of  the  crisp  autumn  day.  I  can 
unwind  your  soul,  and  string  it  in  the  serene 
sky  of  evening,  smiling  in  the  deep  blue  like 
to  the  stars,  encircled,  I  offer  you  as  crown. 
Listen,  fair  Nymph  :  't  is  a  God  woos  you. 

Ariadne 

Alas,  radiant  Divinity  of  a  time  of  year 
gentler  than  Spring  and  fruitfuUer  than  Sum- 
mer, there  is  no  Autumn  for  hapless  Ariadne. 
Only  Winter's  nights  and  frosts  wrap  my 
soul.     When  Theseus  went,  my  youth  went 


69 


ARIADNE    IN    MANTUA 

also.     I  pray  you  leave  me  to  my  poor  tears 
and  the  thoughts  of  him. 

Bacchus 

Lady,  even  a  God,  and  even  a  lover,  must 
respect  your  grief.  Farewell.  Comrades, 
along;  the  pine  trees  on  the  hills,  the  ivy- 
wreaths  upon  the  rocks,  await  your  company ; 
and  the  red  stained  vat,  the  heady-scented 
oak-wood,  demand  your  presence. 

The  Bacchantes  and  Satyrs  sing  a  Latin 
ode  in  praise  of  Wine^  in  four  parts,  with 
accompaniment  of  bass  viols  and  lutes,  and 
exeunt  with  Bacchus. 

Young  Duchess 
{to  Duke  of  Ferrara's  Poet) 
Now,  now,  Master  Torquato,  now  we  shall 
hear  Poetry's  own  self  sing  with  our  Diego's 
voice. 

Diego,  as  Ariadne,  walks  slowly  up  and 
down  the  stage,  while  the  viola  plays  a  prelude 
in  the  minor.  Then  she  speaks,  recitative  with 
chords  only  by  strings  and  harpsichord. 

Ariadne 

They  are  gone  at  last.  Kind  creatures, 
how  their  kindness  fretted  my  weary  soul ! 
To  be  alone  with  grief  is  almost  pleasure. 


70 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

since  grief  means  thought  of  Theseus.  Yet 
that  thought  is  killing  me.  O  Theseus,  why 
didst  thou  ever  come  into  my  life  ?  Why 
did  not  the  cruel  Minotaur  gore  and  trample 
thee  like  all  the  others  ?  Hapless  Ariadne  1 
The  clue  was  in  my  keeping,  and  I  reached 
it  to  him.  And  now  his  ship  has  long  since 
neared  his  native  shores,  and  he  stands  on 
the  prow,  watching  for  his  new  love.  But 
the  Past  belongs  to  me. 

A  flute  rises  in  the  orchestra^  with  viols 
accompanying^  pi^^icati,  and  plays  three  or  four 
bars  of  intricate  mapf  passages f  very  sweet 
and  poignant,  stopping  on  a  high  note,  with 
imperfect  close. 

Ariadne  {continuing) 

And  in  the  past  he  loved  me,  and  he  loves 
me  still.  Nothing  can  alter  that.  Nay, 
Theseus,  thou  canst  never  never  love  another 
like  me. 

Arioso.  The  declamation  becomes  more 
melodic,  though  still  unrhythmical,  and  is  accom- 
panied hy  a  rapid  and  passionate  tremolo  of 
violins  and  viols. 

And  thy  love  for  her  will  be  but  the  thin 
ghost  of  the  reality  that  lived  for  me.     But 


71 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

Theseus Do  not  leave  me  yet.   Another 

hour,  another  minute.  I  have  so  much  to 
tell  thee,  dearest,  ere  thou  goest. 

Accompaniment  more  and  more  agitated.  A 
hautboy  echoes  Ariadne's  last  phrase  with 
poignant  reedy  tone. 

Thou  knowest,  I  have  not  yet  sung  thee 
that  little  song  thou  lovest  to  hear  of  even- 
ings; the  little  song  made  by  the  Aeolian 
Poetess  whom  Apollo  loved  when  in  her 
teens.  And  thou  canst  not  go  away  till  I 
have  sung  it.  See!  my  lute.  But  I  must 
tune  it.  All  is  out  of  tune  in  my  poor 
jangled  life. 

Lute  solo  in  the  orchestra.  A  Siciliana  or 
slow  dance,  very  delicate  and  simpU.  Ari- 
adne sings. 

Song 

Let  us  forget  we  loved  each  other  much  ; 

Let  us  forget  we  ever  have  to  part ; 
Let  us  forget  that  any  look  or  touch 

Once  let  in  either  to  the  other's  heart. 

Only  we  '11  sit  upon  the  daisied  g^ss, 
And  hear  the  larks  and  see  the  swallows  pass ; 

Only  we  '11  live  awhile,  as  children  play, 
Without  to-morrow,  without  yesterday. 


72 


ARIADNE   IN   MANTUA 

During  the  ritornello,  between  He  two  verses. 

Poet 

{to  the  Young  Duchess,  whispering) 

Madam,  methinks  his  Highness  is  unwell. 
Turn  round,  I  pray  you. 

Young  Duchess  {without  turning). 
He  feels  the  play*s  charm.     Hush. 

Duchess  Dowager  {whispering) 

Come  Ferdinand,  you  are  faint.  Come 
with  me. 

Duke  {whispering) 

Nay,  mother.  It  will  pass.  Only  a  certain 
oppression  at  the  heart,  I  was  once  subject 
to.    Let  us  be  still. 

Song  {repeats) 

Only  we  '11  live  awhile,  as  children  play, 
Without  to-morrow,  without  yesterday. 

j4  few  bars  of  ritornello  after  the  song. 

Duchess  Dowager  (whispering) 
Courage,  my  son,  I  know  all. 


73 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Ariadne 

(Recitative  with  accompaniment  of  violins,  flute 
and  harp) 

Theseus,  I  've  sung  my  song.  Alas,  alas 
for  our  poor  songs  we  sing  to  the  beloved, 
and  vainly  try  to  vary  into  newness  ! 

A  few  notes  of  the  harp  well  up,  slow  and 
liquid. 

Now  I  can  go  to  rest,  and  darkness  lap  my 
weary  heart.   Theseus,  my  love,  good  night  1 

Violins  tremolo.  The  hautboy  suddenly 
enters  with  a  long  wailing  phrase.  Ariadne 
quickly  mounts  on  to  the  back  of  the  stage, 
turns  round  for  one  second,  waving  a  kiss  to 
an  imaginary  person,  and  then  flings  herself 
down  into  the  lake. 

A  great  burst  of  applause.  Enter  immedi- 
ately, and  during  the  cries  and  clapping,  a 
chorus  of  Water-Nymphs  in  transparent  veils 
and  garlands  of  willows  and  lilies,  which 
sings  to  a  solemn  counterpoint,  the  dirge  of 
Ariadne.  But  their  singing  is  barely  audible 
through  the  applause  of  the  whole  Court,  and 
the  shouts  o/"  Diego!  Diego!  Ariadne! 
Ariadne!*'  The  young  Duchess  rises 
excitedly,  wiping  her  eyes. 


74 


ariadne  in  mantua 

Young  Duchess 

Dear  friend !  Diego !  Diego  !  Our  Or- 
pheus, come  forth ! 

Crowd 
Diego !  Diego ! 

Poet  {to  the  Pope*s  Legate) 

He  is  a  real  artist,  and  scorns  to  spoil  the 
play's  impression  by  truckling  to  this  fool- 
ish habit  of  applause. 

Marchioness 

Still,  a  mere  singer,  a  page when  his 

betters  call .     But  seel  the  Duke  has 

left  our  midst. 

Cardinal 

He  has  gone  to  bring  back  Diego  in 
triumph,  doubtless. 

Venetian  Ambassador 

And,  I  note,  his  venerable  mother  has  also 
left  us.  I  doubt  whether  this  play  has  not 
offended  her  strict  widow's  austerity. 

Young  Duchess 
But  where  is  Diego,  meanwhile  ? 


75 


ARIADNE   IN    MANTUA 

The  Chorus  and  orchestra  continue  the  dirge 
for  Ariadne.  A  Gentleman-in-waiting 
elhows  through  the  crowd  to  the  Cardinal. 

Gentleman  (whispering) 
Most  Eminent,  a  word 

Cardinal  {whispering) 

The  Duke  has  had  a  return  of  his  malady  ? 

Gentleman  {whispering) 

No,  most  Eminent.  But  Diego  is  nowhere 
to  be  found.  And  they  have  brought  up 
behind  the  stage  the  body  of  a  woman  in 
Ariadne's  weeds. 

Cardinal  {whispering) 

Ah,  is  that  all  ?  Discretion,  pray.  I  knew 
it.  But  't  is  a  most  distressing  accident. 
Discretion  above  all. 

The  Chorus  suddenly  breaks  off.  For  on  to 
the  stage  comes  the  Duke.  He  is  dripping, 
and  hears  in  his  arms  the  dead  body,  drowned, 
of  Diego,  in  the  garb  of  Ariadne.  A  shout 
from  the  crowd. 

Young  Duchess 

{with  a  cry,  clutching  the  Poet*s  arm) 

Diego  1 


76 


ARIADNE  IN   MANTUA 

Duke 

{stooping  over  the  body,  which  he  has  laid  upon 
the  stage,  and  speaking  very  low) 

Magdalen ! 

( The  curtain  is  hastily  closed.) 

THE   END 


THE  LAKES  OF  MANTUA 

IT  was  the  Lakes,  the  deliciousness  of  water 
and  sedge  seen  from  the  railway  on 
a  blazfng  June  day,  that  made  me  stop 
at  Mantua  for  the  first  time ;  and  the  thought 
of  them  that  drew  me  back  to  Mantua 
this  summer.  They  surround  the  city 
on  three  sides,  being  formed  by  the  Mincio 
on  its  way  from  Lake  Garda  to  the  Po, 
shallow  lakes  spilt  on  the  great  Lombard 
Plain.  They  are  clear,  rippled,  fringed  with 
reed,  islanded  with  water  lilies,  and  in  them 
wave  the  longest,  greenest  weeds.  Here 
and  there  a  tawny  sail  of  a  boat  comes  up 
from  Venice ;  children  are  bathing  under  the 
castle  towers;  at  a  narrow  point  is  a  long 
covered  stone  bridge  where  the  water  rushes 
through  mills  and  one  has  glimpses  into 
cool,  dark  places  smelling  of  grist. 

The  city  itself  has  many  traces  of  magnifi- 
cence, although  it  has  been  stripped  of 
pictures  more  than  any  other,  furnishing  out 
every  gallery  in  Europe  since  the  splendid 
Gonzagas  forfeited  the  Duchy  to  Austria. 
There  are  a  good  many  delicate  late  Renais- 


8i 


THE   LAKES   OF    MANTUA 

sance  houses,  carried  on  fine  columns ;  also 
some  charming  open  terra-cotta  work  in 
windows  and  belfries.  The  Piazza  Erbe  has, 
above  its  fruit  stalls  and  market  of  wooden 
pails  and  earthenware,  and  fishing-tackle  and 
nets  (reminding  one  of  the  lakes),  a  very 
picturesque  clock  with  a  seated  Madonna; 
and  in  the  Piazza  Virgilio  there  are  two  very 
noble  battlemented  palaces  with  beautiful 
bold  Ghibelline  swallow-tails.  All  the  build- 
ings are  faintly  whitened  by  damp,  and  the 
roofs  and  towers  are  of  very  pale,  almost 
faded  rose  colour,  against  the  always  moist 
blue  sky. 

But  what  goes  to  the  brain  at  Mantua  is 
the  unlikely  combination,  the  fantastic  duet, 
of  the  palace  and  the  lake.  One  naturally 
goes  first  into  the  oldest  part,  the  red-brick 
castle  of  the  older  Marquises,  in  one  of 
whose  great  square  towers  are  Mantegna*s 
really  delightful  frescoes :  charming  cupids, 
like  fleecy  clouds  turned  to  babies,  playing 
in  a  sky  of  the  most  marvellous  blue,  among 
garlands  of  green  and  of  orange  and  lemon 
trees  cut  into  triumphal  arches,  with  the 
Marquis  of  Mantua  and  all  the  young  swash- 
buckler Gonzagas  underneath.  The  whole 
decoration,  with  its  predominant  blue,  and 
enamel  white  and  green,  is  delicate  and  cool 
in  its   magnificence,  and  more   thoroughly 


82 


THE   LAKES   OF   MANTUA 

enjoyable  than  most  of  Mantegna's  work. 
But  the  tower  windows  frame  in  something 
more  wonderful  and  delectable  —  one  of  the 
lakes !  The  pale  blue  water,  edged  with 
green  reeds,  the  poplars  and  willows  of  the 
green  plain  beyond;  a  blue  vagueness  of 
Alps,  and,  connecting  it  all,  the  long  castle 
bridge  with  its  towers  of  pale  geranium-col- 
oured bricks. 

One  has  to  pass  through  colossal  yards  to 
get  from  this  fortified  portion  to  the  rest  of 
the  Palace,  Corte  Nuova,  as  it  is  called. 
They  have  now  become  public  squares,  and 
the  last  time  I  saw  them,  it  being  market 
day,  they  were  crowded  with  carts  unloading 
baskets  of  silk  ;  and  everywhere  the  porticoes 
were  heaped  with  pale  yellow  and  greenish 
cocoons;  the  palace  filled  with  the  sickly 
smell  of  the  silkworm,  which  seemed,  by 
coincidence,  to  express  its  saecular  decay. 
For  of  all  the  decaying  palaces  I  have  ever 
seen  in  Italy  this  Palace  of  Mantua  is  the 
most  utterly  decayed.  At  first  you  have  no 
other  impression.  But  little  by  little,  as  you 
tramp  through  what  seem  miles  of  solemn 
emptiness,  you  find  that  more  than  any 
similar  place  it  has  gone  to  your  brain.  For 
these  endless  rooms  and  cabinets  —  some, 
like  those  of  Isabella  d'Este  (which  held  the 
Mantegna  and  Perugino  and  Costa  allege- 


83 


THE   LAKES   OF   MANTUA 

ries,  Triumph  of  Chastity  and  so  forth,  now 
in  the  Louvre),  quite  delicate  and  exquisite ; 
or  scantily  modernised  under  Maria  Theresa 
for  a  night's  ball  or  assembly;  or  actu- 
ally crumbling,  defaced,  filled  with  musty 
archives ;  or  recently  used  as  fodder  stores 
and  barracks  —  all  this  colossal  labyrinth, 
oddly  symbolised  by  the  gold  and  blue 
labyrinth  on  one  of  the  ceilings,  is,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  magnificent  and  fantastic 
thing  left  behind  by  the  Italy  of  Shakespeare. 
The  art  that  remains  (by  the  way,  in  one 
dismantled  hall  I  found  the  empty  stucco 
frames  of  our  Triumph  of  Julius  Caesar  I)  is, 
indeed,  often  clumsy  and  cheap  —  elaborate 
medallions  and  ceilings  by  Giulio  Romano 
and  Primaticcio ;  but  one  feels  that  it  once 
appealed  to  an  Ariosto-Tasso  mythological 
romance  which  was  perfectly  genuine,  and 
another  sort  of  romance  now  comes  with  its 
being  so  forlorn. 

Forlorn,  forlorn!  And  everywhere,  from 
the  halls  with  mouldering  zodiacs  and  Loves 
of  the  Gods  and  Dances  of  the  Muses ;  and 
across  hanging  gardens  choked  with  weeds 
and  fallen  in  to  a  lower  level,  appear  the  blue 
waters  of  the  lake,  and  its  green  distant 
banks,  to  make  it  all  into  Fairyland.  There 
is,  more  particularly,  a  certain  long,  long 
portico,  not  far  from  Isabella  d'Este's  writ- 


84 


THE   LAKES   OF   MANTUA 

ing  closet,  dividing  a  great  green  field  planted 
with  mulberry  trees,  within  the  palace  walls, 
from  a  fringe  of  silvery  willows  growing  in 
the  pure,  lilied  water.  Here  the  Dukes  and 
their  courtiers  took  the  air  when  the  Alps 
slowly  revealed  themselves  above  the  plain 
after  sunset;  and  watched,  no  doubt,  either 
elaborate  quadrilles  and  joustings  in  the  rid- 
ing-school, on  the  one  hand,  or  boat-races 
and  all  manner  of  water  pageants  on  the 
other.  We  know  it  all  from  the  books  of 
the  noble  art  of  horsemanship :  plumes  and 
curls  waving  above  curvetting  Spanish 
horses;  and  from  the  rarer  books  of  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  century  masques  and 
early  operas,  where  Arion  appears  on  his 
colossal  dolphin  packed  with  Horhos  and 
violas  d*amoref  singing  some  mazy  aria  by 
Caccini  or  Monteverde,  full  of  plaintive  flour- 
ishes and  unexpected  minors.  We  know  it 
all,  the  classical  pastoral  still  coloured  with 
mediaeval  romance,  from  Tasso  and  Guarini 
—  nay,  from  Fletcher  and  Milton.  Moreover, 
some  chivalrous  Gonzaga  duke,  perhaps  that 
same  Vincenzo  who  had  the  blue  and  gold 
ceiling  made  after  the  pattern  of  the  labyrinth 
in  which  he  had  been  kept  by  the  Turks,  not 
too  unlike,  let  us  hope,  Orsino  of  Illyria,  and 
by  his  side  a  not  yet  mournful  Lady  Olivia ; 
and  perhaps,  directing  the  concert  at   the 


85 


THE    LAKES    OF    MANTUA 

virginal,  some  singing  page  Cesario.  .  .  , 
Fancy  a  water  pastoral,  like  the  Sabrina 
part  of  "  Comus,"  watched  from  that  por- 
tico !  The  nymph  Manto,  founder  of  Mantua, 
rising  from  the  lake  ;  cardboard  shell  or  real 
one  ?  Or  the  shepherds  of  Father  Virgil, 
trying  to  catch  hold  of  Proteus;  but  all 
in  ruffs  and  ribbons,  spouting  verses  like 
"Amyntas"  or  "The  Faithful  Shepherdess." 
And  now  only  the  song  of  the  frogs  rises  up 
from  among  the  sedge  and  willows,  where 
the  battlemented  castle  steeps  its  buttresses 
in  the  lake. 

There  is  another  side  to  this  Shakespearean 
palace,  not  of  romance  but  of  grotesqueness 
verging  on  to  horror.  There  are  the  Dwarfs* 
Apartments  I  Imagine  a  whole  piece  of  the 
building,  set  aside  for  their  dreadful  living, 
a  rabbit  warren  of  tiny  rooms,  including  a 
chapel  against  whose  vault  you  knock  your 
head,  and  a  grand  staircase  quite  sickeningly 
low  to  descend.  Strange  human  or  half- 
human  kennels,  one  trusts  never  really  put 
to  use,  and  built  as  a  mere  brutal  jest  by  a 
Duke  of  Mantua  smarting  under  the  sway 
of  some  saturnine  little  monster,  like  the 
ones  who  stand  at  the  knee  of  Mantegna's 
frescoed  Gonzagas. 

After  seeing  the  Castello  and  the  Corte 
Nuova  one  naturally  thinks  it  one's  duty  to 


86 


THE  LAKES   OF   MANTUA 

go  and  see  the  little  Palazzo  del  Te,  just 
outside  the  town.  Inconceivable  frescoes, 
colossal,  sprawling  gods  and  goddesses,  all 
chalk  and  brick  dust,  enough  to  make 
Rafael,  who  was  responsible  for  them 
through  his  abominable  pupils,  turn  for  ever 
in  his  coffin.  Damp-stained  stuccoes  and 
grass -grown  courtyards,  and  no  sound  save 
the  noisy  cicalas  sawing  on  the  plane-trees. 
How  utterly  forsaken  of  gods  and  men  is 
all  this  Gonzaga  splendour  1  But  all  round, 
luxuriant  green  grass,  and  English -looking 
streams  winding  flush  among  great  willows. 
We  left  the  Palazzo  del  Te  very  speedily 
behind  us,  and  set  out  toward  Pietola,  the 
birthplace  of  Virgil.  But  the  magic  of  one 
of  the  lakes  bewitched  us.  We  sat  on  the 
wonderful  green  embankments,  former  forti- 
fications of  the  Austrians,  with  trees  steeping 
in  the  water,  and  a  delicious,  ripe,  fresh 
smell  of  leaves  and  sun-baked  flowers,  and 
watched  quantities  of  large  fish  in  the  green 
shadow  of  the  railway  bridge.  In  front  of 
us,  under  the  reddish  town  walls,  spread  an 
immense  field  of  white  water  lilies;  and 
farther  off,  across  the  blue  rippled  water, 
rose  the  towers  and  cupolas  and  bastions  of 
the  Gonzaga's  palace  —  palest  pink,  unsub- 
stantial, utterly  unreal,  in  the  trembling  heat 
of  the  noontide. 


RETTIPM  -r-r.      ^^    ^AY    USE 

KBTUR^  TO  DESK  ^OM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT, 

TT.i5  iJT- "^"^  ONIY-TU.  NO.  6«^05 


^J>2lA-60m-6,'69 
(J90968l0)476-A.32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YA  0866)0 


